


Falling From Memory

by rlu1



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drama, F/M, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-09
Updated: 2016-01-06
Packaged: 2018-02-24 18:22:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 23
Words: 44,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2591576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rlu1/pseuds/rlu1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Where's John?" The question came from Lestrade. Sherlock Holmes rolled his eyes. "I thought you called me in to solve a murder, not to have banal small talk." Little did Sherlock know that this case was about to touch too close to home and that he would soon be forced to face his emotions surrounding a certain ex-army doctor. Eventual Johnlock.</p><p>Disclaimer: Please be aware that there are acts that could be seen as physical and sexual violence in this story. Also, as much as I like to dream about owning Sherlock and his world, I sadly do not. He belongs to the genius of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and the BBC. This story is for entertainment purposes only. Enjoy!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"Where's John?"

The question came from a one Mister Greg Lestrade, grey-haired, tired-eyed Detective Inspector for New Scotland Yard.

Sherlock Holmes, world's only consulting detective, rolled his sea-blue eyes and huffed in an exasperated way that sent his dark brunette curls bouncing. "I thought you called me in to solve a murder, not to have banal small talk."

Lestrade arched his eyebrows and the consulting detective gave another dramatic huff. He had known that the absence of John Watson, former army doctor and current blogger, would raise questions among the members of the Yard - after all, this was the first time that John had not shown up to a case in years and, if truth be told, Sherlock currently felt like a piece of him was missing. He finally said through gritted teeth, "I do not see how this is relevant to the case but...if you must know...he is with Mary."

Lestrade's forehead furrowed with confusion. "Mary...who's Mary?"

"His new girlfriend," the consulting detective muttered before pushing past Lestrade towards the crime scene. "What information do you have so far?" he asked over his shoulder as Lestrade jogged to catch up.

"Not much," the D.I. admitted. "I know you haven't had a case in quite some time and Mrs. Hudson was complaining that you have been shooting at her walls again, so I figured I'd just leave this one to your skills...if that is agreeable with you? Gives me some time to catch up on my sleep."

Sherlock nodded curtly. "You've been sleeping on the couch again."

Lestrade's lips formed a thin line and he refrained from answering the question.

By now, they were approaching a large freezer in which there was a briefcase and a figure lying face down with a clear bullet wound in the neck. Sherlock's steps quickened and he grabbed gloves, pulled them on hastily, and leaned over the freezer to analyze the body as he said nonchalantly, "Despite what you may wish to believe, your wife is still unhappy in your marriage. The constant arguing is not going to end, so I do hope you enjoy sleeping on the couch. Have you searched the victim's clothing and briefcase?"

Lestrade bit his lip before stating in exasperation, "I thought you didn't want banal small talk." But the poor D.I. quickly shut his mouth when he witnessed the cold look spreading across Sherlock's face. Clearing his throat, the D.I. changed the subject. "No, nothing has been searched. Again, this case is all yours. Though it's hard not to notice how much this guy looks like you...from the back at least."

Sherlock felt a chill run down his spine as he set his eyes on the corpse. What Lestrade had said was true - the deceased body, male, had the same body-build as the consulting detective, dark brown curls tumbled from its head, and the coat it wore (long, dark, wool tweed) was eerily similar in style to Sherlock's. Lying face down as it was, the body could easily have passed as his own. At this observation, the consulting detective's throat constricted for a brief moment but then he pushed the silly idea aside. _There are millions and millions of people in this world. It is only logical that some of us will look similar._

Lestrade continued, "He was shot in the neck, as you can see. Since he has been frozen, there hasn't been much decomposition. Because of that, it's unclear if his death was recent or - "

"It occurred two years ago," Sherlock interrupted, pulling papers out of the side of the frozen briefcase.

Lestrade's mouth fell open. "And how do you know that?"

"Newspaper," and the consulting detective waved an icy newspaper in the air. "Dated from two years ago." Then he was waving another pile of icy papers in the air, "And graded tests, also dated from two years ago."

"Tests?" Lestrade asked.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, pursed his plump lips, and gave Lestrade a defiant look. "Yes...tests...exams...he was an instructor, _obviously_. Do try to keep up. This is all boringly evident." His focus returned to the corpse. "A science professor, to be exact. A cursory glance at the front page of the exams tells us that they were for an Introduction to Chemistry class at King's College London taught by a Dr. Xavier Smithe."

His long fingers were searching the outer pocket of the briefcase again and he soon pulled out a science journal. As he skimmed it, his eyes glowed. "Ah, and he was very much an intellectual. Wrote an article about two and a half years ago on the process of ratiocination. It was obviously well-received as it was published in one of the world's leading science journals. Surprised I haven't read it yet. Do you mind if I take the journal with me?"

"Be my guest," Lestrade said.

Sherlock was now examining the corpse's digits. "Calluses on the tips of his fingers and down the sides of his thumbs say he practiced piano quite regularly." As the consulting detective uttered this statement, his hands searched the pockets of the man's jacket. He pulled up a folded sheet of paper and, upon perusing its contents, a contented half-smile spread his lips. "And with lovely taste. This is sheet music for Sonata Number One in G Minor. Bach. One of my favourite pieces. Simply exquisite on the violin."

Lestrade chuckled slightly.

When Sherlock gave the D.I. a curious look, Lestrade raised a hand in apology. "I'm sorry, it's just...sounds like you two are twins or something. You're basically wearing the same clothes, you're bragging about his intellect, you're gushing over his taste in music..."

"Mmm..." Sherlock grunted absent-mindedly as he looked over the body again. But then the consulting detective's eyebrows furrowed in consternation.

"Sherlock - what's wrong?" Lestrade said, frowning slightly.

Sherlock stood to his full height. "I have read the newspapers every day since I was a child and yet I do not recall ever reading about a Dr. Xavier Smithe having gone missing." Then the detective was back over the corpse, delicate fingers searching the side pocket of the briefcase again.

The next item that he retrieved from the bag was an address book. With a cry of triumph, his blue eyes began to skim the pages. After mere seconds, he spoke again. "He was a solitary man."

Lestrade gave Sherlock a mild look of admiration. "And how do you know that?"

"His address book contains businesses, organizations, and colleagues. Colleagues whom he viewed as work partners and nothing more. He refers to them by their formal names. For instance, Dr. Malcolm, Dr. Tierre, Dr. Hansen. If they were friends, he would refer to them in a more casual manner. But there is no one here whom he refers to casually. No Mum or Dad or Sue or Bill or what have you. Conclusion: solitary man, with no friends or loved ones. That is why his death didn't have a big media presence. There was no one to miss him, aside from the university and really there are so many professors fighting for positions that his seat would have been filled quickly."

"Sounds just like you, freak." This voice was a woman's.

The two men turned to find that Sally Donovan, police officer for New Scotland Yard, had just entered the room, a smirk on her face.

"Afternoon," Sherlock muttered, letting a bored look graze his face as he turned his attention away from the woman.

"I said, sounds just like you," Sally repeated. "You are a solitary man with no friends or loved ones."

Sherlock was surprised and mildly annoyed to find that Sally's comment stung him in the chest. "I don't have _many_ friends, but I do have John."

Sally smirked. "I don't think you do, though. I don't see John. Where is he then?"

Sherlock's nostrils flared and the stinging in his chest intensified but he told himself to stay focused on the case. He turned back to Lestrade. "We need to make sure that this is, in fact, Dr. Xavier Smithe. Can you find a picture of him while I turn the body over?"

Lestrade nodded and retrieved his smartphone from his pocket. As the D.I. began typing, Sherlock returned to the body. He placed his hands firmly on one side of the torso and heaved. But as the body fell onto its back, the consulting detective staggered with a cry of shock and slight horror - for staring up at him was a very familiar face; it was pale and angular with sharp cheekbones, sea blue eyes, and plump lips.


	2. Chapter 2

_"...all my soul within me burning."_

_-Edgar Allen Poe's "The Raven" (1845)_

"We're not a couple." John had uttered this statement so many times, he had lost count. And at first, the words had been said with anger and frustration. Because how in this world could people think that dependable, loyal, compassionate John would ever date the arrogant, cold, machine-like Sherlock Holmes?

Yet, as time went on, John began to utter the words with longing. No, they were _not_ a couple...but boy did he _wish_ that they were. Because why in this world _wouldn't_ danger-craving, risk-taking, gun-wielding John be attracted to the brilliant, heroic, completely gorgeous, and very human Sherlock Holmes?

John would never forget the day that he realized just how much he wanted Sherlock. The day that the consulting detective set John's world on fire. Though it had started out just like any other day (John waking up to find that Sherlock had replaced his breakfast in the fridge with a severed head, while Sherlock lay dramatically across the couch hissing and moaning about how boring everything was), it was the day that John went and got himself kidnapped. The day that he had gone for a simple walk in the park, had been beaten unconscious, and had woken up full of bruises at the local swimming pool, with bombs strapped to his chest and a glassy-eyed Sherlock Holmes leaning over him, breathing warm, heavy, and frightened gasps across the doctor's swollen skin, pale fingers frantically trying to crack the bomb's code. "John...what the hell...John...John...John..."

And though John should have been afraid, though John should have been distraught, he was perhaps happier than he had ever been - because how could he never have seen how beautiful (how _fucking beautiful_ ) Sherlock Holmes was before? How had he never noticed the way that Sherlock's eyes swirled blue, grey, green, and gold all at once - a feverish, wonderful, fierce tango of colour and brilliance? How had he never smelled the rich thickness and musky sweetness that was unique to Sherlock Holmes before this moment? And how could he have been such an idiot to think this curly-haired man a machine when here before him was proof that Sherlock was, in fact, the most frightened, vulnerable, _magnificently human_ human being in the world?

Where the detective's eyes were normally cold and emotionless, now they had begun to turn a ghastly shade of red. And, though John had seen the detective confront criminals and murderers twice his size without a moment's hesitation, now those normally-steady hands were trembling intensely. "John...I can't figure out the code...John...I can't figure it out..." Sherlock finally whispered breathlessly, his eyebrows knitted in frustration, eyes radiating energy. And then...finally...that look of complete comprehension washed over the detective's fine features and he entered the code into the bomb's timer within a matter of milliseconds.

As the bomb deactivated, the detective unravelled the contraption from the doctor's swollen body, threw it across the length of the pool, and sagged wearily into John's form. John could feel Sherlock's heart throbbing against his chest and the sensation sent the former army doctor's innards on fire; a warm, comfortable, strong, friendly fire that lapped in all the right places. And then, Sherlock was laughing against John, a mirthful, adrenaline-laced sound that rang through the air as sweet as honey and which inevitably sent John into his own set of hysterical, joyful chuckles.

They clutched at one another, laughing and giggling, and John gasped out in between breaths, "You ripping stuff off me in a darkened swimming pool...now people are really going to talk...about us...as a couple..."

Sherlock's breathing steadied and he pulled away from the shorter man. His voice was gentle but terse as he replied, "People do little else."

A silence consumed them then.

Finally, John spoke. "Does it bother you that people talk about us in that way?"

Sherlock did not hesitate in his response. "No, not at all."

And before John knew what he was doing, his hands were caressing the detective's chiselled cheeks, he was ignoring Sherlock's sharp intake of breath, and he was crushing his lips against the plump, tender lips of the detective, trying to convey all of his emotions (his frustration, his agitation, his gratitude, his love, his passion, his anger, all of it) within the warmth and intensity of the kiss.

The doctor's stomach churned with pleasure when he heard Sherlock moan contentedly against him. John could feel the detective's lips turn upward in a genuine smile, and the detective's fingers started massaging gently at the various bruises that covered the doctor's body. But then, in the next moment, there were firm hands against John's chest and Sherlock frowned before hissing an adamant, "No."

And when Sherlock pulled away from the doctor, his sea blue eyes were once again cold and his angular features were once again hard.

The fire in John's heart weakened for an instant but then crackled and re-ignited with a hotness like never before. Sherlock _had_ been enjoying their moment of intimacy - John was sure of it. He searched the detective's face for an answer but found the curly-haired man's expression absolutely unreadable.

Clearing his throat, John asked in a pathetically quiet voice, "Why not?"

Sherlock's tone was coarse and curt. "I've told you before, I am married to my work. I crave the stability of it; the fact that the work - the evidence, the data - is based on reason, it is rational. Caring is not stable, John. It is not based on reason. It is not rational. It makes the mind weak. Because if you care, you will get hurt. I will not make the mistake of caring. Don't you see that it is a disadvantage?"

"But this...you saving me...didn't you do it because you care about me?" John questioned in a small but hopeful tone.

The consulting detective gave John an intense stare but remained silent. Then he stood up and walked away, his coat billowing after him. Where the fire had blazoned in John's heart but minutes before, he now felt cold and damp and utterly hollow. The pain of the bruises covering his body engulfed his mind and sent him into tears.

And from then on, every time he had to tell someone, "We're not a couple," the desire and longing within his body threatened to push him to the point of exploding. Because no, they were _not_ a couple...but boy did he _wish_ that they were. He wished it more than anything in the entire universe.

But then he met Mary Morstan. Mary, with her gentle blonde hair, warm blue eyes, and sweet sweet smile. Sympathetic, full-hearted, utterly caring Mary. And though she did not ignite a fire in the former army doctor's heart, she did ignite a flurry of butterflies in his stomach and that felt very nice indeed.


	3. Chapter 3

It had taken Sherlock Holmes exactly 5.3 seconds to recover from his position of agonized horror (one which involved wobbly legs, leaden feet, blazing blue eyes, puckered lips, skin as pale as snow, and the tearing of curly brown hair to the point that it looked like it had been through a windstorm) at the sight of the victim.

Greg Lestrade, however, took a much longer time to recover. When the D.I. witnessed the victim's face, his body went absolutely rigid and his mouth fell open in a perfect O. Sally Donovan did not fare much better - she looked about ready to faint and quickly excused herself, rushing out of the room without so much as a glance over her shoulder.

"Holy shit…I mean… _holy shit_ …I knew there were similarities…you know… the coat…the hair…the height…the weight…but holy shit…you're…you look...you look basically identical…" Lestrade kept whispering under his breath, eyes darting between the body and the consulting detective.

A clearly agitated Sherlock leant over the fridge once again, this time examining the front of the corpse. The consulting detective's eyebrows were turned downward in such a fury that a sharp line had formed at his temple, and he kept biting his lower lip.

"Are you okay, Sherlock? You've been acting pretty shaken up ever since you flipped the body over," Lestrade dared to say after a long stretch of time had passed in silence. The D.I. himself was more than a little spooked by the stark resemblance between the two figures in front of him, and he could understand if the consulting detective was feeling uncomfortable about the whole situation. "We can take a break you know."

Sherlock gave Lestrade a vehement glare and practically spat, "I DON'T NEED A BREAK! I AM FINE!" He took a shuddering breath before continuing in a low growl, "Don't try to deduce me. It will only serve to make you look more idiotic than you already do. Now either leave the room or stop thinking - your thoughts are infuriating!" And with that, the consulting detective slammed his hands down gruffly on both sides of the freezer and groaned dramatically.

Truthfully, Sherlock was absolutely alarmed by the fact that the victim looked so much like him. And naturally, he was also utterly, incredibly, achingly annoyed at his current state of distress. He closed his eyes, feeling an overwhelming wave of vertigo. His mind was racing at the speed of light and, though he tried desperately to focus on the case, he found himself drawn back to one thought. A thought that he could not begin to understand. A thought he did not want to begin to understand. A thought that sent a variety of uncomfortable, aggravating, disgusting emotions coursing through his slender body. A horrid thought that he longed so badly to delete because it was completely irrelevant to the work at hand. And yet he couldn't erase it. It ricocheted through his mind palace viciously and circuitously. _What if it was my body lying there instead of his? What if it were me instead of him? What if it were me instead of him?_

"SHUT UP!" the consulting detective moaned in agony, his fingers pulling fiercely and furiously at his hair.

Lestrade jumped. "Oh, come on! Surely I wasn't thinking anything infuriating _that_ time."

The curly-haired man gritted his teeth, and spun on his heels to turn blazing eyes on the poor D.I. "I wasn't talking to _you_!"

Lestrade raised his eyebrows in consternation. "Who were you talking to then?" 

Sherlock pursed his lips. "Myself." 

After taking another shaky breath, he resumed his examination of the body, his fingers delicately massaging around the victim's mouth, his sea blue eyes glassy and distant. But as his fingers began to massage the victim's jaw, his face transformed. There was a glint of excitement that lit his eyes, and a flicker of a smile graced his lips. "Fascinating," he said under his breath. 

A few more moments passed and then the consulting detective looked at Lestrade with an expression befitting a birthday party rather than a crime scene. "The bullet to the neck was the cause of death, but it's likely the victim would have died soon regardless. Judging by the state of his decaying teeth, his damaged gums, his swelling jaw, and the honeycombed condition of his jawbone, he was suffering from the beginning stages of radiation poisoning. His symptoms are similar to the initial symptoms suffered by the Radium Girls. Female factory workers during the earlier half of the 1900s. They painted radium powder onto items such as watch dials to make them glow in the dark. The women were told the radium powder was harmless and, so, would lick the tips of their paintbrushes to create ideal points with which to paint. Some of the workers were so attracted to the glow in the dark effects of the radium that they even painted their teeth and their nails with the substance. Many of these women suffered horrible, often fatal, maladies as a result, though these maladies were not immediately apparent." 

Lestrade watched the consulting detective with a mixture of concern and veneration. 

"I will have to conduct some experiments to confirm. And judging by the bullet wound, the bullet is still embedded in the body. Utterly dull but I will have to examine it, of course. Have the body sent to St. Bart's. Tell Molly to text me when it arrives," and with those words, the curly-haired man turned, pulled his cell phone out of his coat pocket, and began to take large strides towards the door. 

"Where are you going?" the D.I. called after the quickly-retreating form. 

Sherlock did not even pause as he replied, "King's College." 

His fingers hit the buttons of his phone excitedly, the distress that he had felt only minutes before now replaced with a delightful rush of adrenaline. A bullet wound alone was not overly exciting, but the addition of potential radiation poisoning was quite delicious. It was just the kind of twist that John would roll his eyes at but would secretly appreciate, the sort of finding that would send John into gushes of "Brilliant, Sherlock, you are fantastic." Sherlock adored receiving John's praises. And besides, John had been with Mary since morning - surely the former army doctor would be itching for some excitement and good old-fashioned danger by now. 

**King's College in 20 minutes. Need my blogger. SH**

A faint smile spread across the consulting detective's lips as he sent the text to John, and he found himself whispering under his breath, "The game is on." 

Then he waved his hand with gusto towards a passing cab and was sliding into the backseat before the cab had made a complete stop. "King's College," he said in a hurried tone. 

He was feeling better now - much, much better. Giddy with adrenaline that coursed through his veins at energizing speed. He placed his fingers under his chin and licked his lips at the anticipation of the game. The puzzle. The dark, winding, comfortable tunnel of mystery that he was embarking on. It was absolutely exhilarating. Oh, how he was going to enjoy winning this game. Putting the puzzle pieces together. Finding the light at the end of the tunnel. Revealing the order out of seeming chaos. 

His phone buzzed and his smile grew as he reached into his coat pocket to retrieve it. But once he read the message on the screen, his smile faded and his skin blanched. In fact, he felt like perhaps he would never smile again. No longer was the dark, winding tunnel comfortable and welcoming - now it was filled with impenetrable dankness, cold and suffocating and hopelessly chaotic. The message that John had just sent blazed brightly and mockingly across Sherlock's phone. 

**Will have to pass this time. Spending the day with Mary. Don't forget to eat and don't do anything stupid.**

It couldn't be true...it just couldn't be true...John had never passed up on an opportunity like this... _never_...until now. Before he could suppress the overpowering emotions that were pooling in his chest, Sherlock's phone had tumbled from his hands. He stared at it dejectedly, too numb to find the strength or the desire to pick it up. His breathing was coming to him in short, sharp puffs as Sally's words echoed painfully through his mind. _You are a solitary man with no friends or loved ones…I don't see John. Where is he then?_

_Freak._

_Freak._

_Freak._

Sherlock's voice sounded pitiful and pleading as he told the cab driver, "Take me to 221B Baker Street instead. Please." 

For the first time in his life, Sherlock Holmes did not want to play the game. For the first time in his life, this felt like a game that the world's only consulting detective simply could not win. 


	4. Chapter 4

"Oh Sherlock," John Watson moaned against warm lips. His head was buzzing in pure euphoria, his heart was crying for joy against his chest, and a bubbling desire was sizzling in his trousers. He was floating on a cloud of bliss and he never wanted to come down.

But down he came, and it was a dreadfully hard landing back into the reality of the rainy London evening.

First, the warm lips parted from his in shock, and began to tremble in a mixture of hurt and outrage. Then, "What did you call me?" Mary asked sharply.

John's eyes widened and then he sighed, lowering his head in shame. "Oh bloody hell. Mary…I am _so_ sorry."

Mary sucked in her porcelain cheeks and tears formed in her usually mirthful eyes.

The former army doctor was running his hands through his hair and down his face now. "Mary…darling…I didn't mean anything by it…"

"You didn't _mean_ anything by it?" the bright-eyed woman cried shrewdly. "We were kissing…we were _kissing_ , John…and you yelled out your _flatmate's_ name…while we were _kissing_ …and you're telling me you didn't _mean_ anything by it…what…what the _hell_ were you thinking about…where was your mind…this is _unbelievable_ …"

John nodded and cleared his throat hesitantly. "I'm…I know…I'm sorry, Mary. I guess…I guess my mind was elsewhere."

Mary's eyebrows arched and she asked in an acidic tone, "And where was it exactly?"

"Just…you know…thinking about the text Sherlock sent earlier today…to meet at King's College…I was just wondering…you know…how the case is going…" the poor doctor stammered dejectedly.

This wasn't a total lie. It was definitely true that John was curious about the case. He wished he had been able to hear Sherlock's deductions at the crime scene. He had wanted so badly to help Sherlock collect additional data. And he wondered if Sherlock had had to chase any criminals through the city this time. Yet, if John had been completely honest with Mary, he would have told her that as his lips met the warmth and softness of hers, his mind had transformed her - her gentle blonde hair had changed to soft brunette curls, her warm blue eyes had begun to radiate hues of silver, gold, and green, and suddenly she smelled like Sherlock and she tasted like Sherlock and oh dear how he had wanted Sherlock, Sherlock, _Sherlock_. But naturally, he could never admit this horrible truth to darling Mary. _His_ darling Mary.

The poor woman looked deflated enough as it was. "You would rather be with him than with me," she said in a voice that was barely audible.

John shook his head vehemently and frowned. "Don't…don't say that…I didn't go, did I? I'm here…I stayed with you." And it had not been easy for the former army doctor to pass up the excitement of a case. But Mary was lovely, she was truly lovely…and it was time for him to stop fantasizing about Sherlock Holmes. It was time to accept that the consulting detective would never want anything beyond what the two of them already had. John knew he needed to move on and so, when the text message calling him to King's College had blazed across the screen of his phone, he had looked into the beautiful blue eyes of Mary Morstan and he had known that he had to stay with her, the wonderful woman who sent butterflies dancing in his stomach every time she smiled. He needed her to understand how special she was and his voice turned pleading as he said, "Mary…darling…he's my best friend but you…you are _more_ than that…"

Mary sniffed and wrapped her arms around her chest protectively. "I want to believe you, John. And yet, it seems you would rather solve cases with him instead of share a romantic night with me."

"No…no, no, no, no…" John whispered fervently, holding Mary's shoulders gently, looking deep into her eyes. His stomach churned - oh, she was so sweet and so gentle and he truly enjoyed being with her; but he couldn't deny or shake the thought that was now tumbling back and forth in his mind. _Yes…yes, yes, yes, yes…you're right Mary…you're right…I would rather be solving cases with Sherlock than sharing a romantic night with you._ Yet, despite the fact that this thought - this truth - kept churning through his mind, his heart still ached in guilt and regret when Mary uttered the following words:

"Please leave."

Now the former army doctor felt absolutely wretched. He hated himself - he was a complete arse. Mary was amazing and he…he was a total fool of a man.

"Mary…" he moaned, reaching out to touch her sweet cheeks. But she turned away from him then, and sighed as she watched the rain fall outside the window.

"I just need some space, okay? But I will call tomorrow."

John placed a hand on the small of her back. "Promise?"

She gave him a smile that was sad and faint. "Promise. Good night, John."

\-------------------------------------------------

Half an hour later found John exiting a taxi and storming into 221B Baker Street. The former army doctor had spent the taxi ride dreaming of a nice cuppa and a sweltering hot shower to calm his wrecked nerves, but he forgot all of these desires as soon as he entered the living room. Sherlock was sitting on the couch in night clothes, a distant look in his eyes, a scowl on his lips, his silky blue dressing gown falling haphazardly off of his slender form.

"Oh…" John said, approaching the consulting detective. "I didn't expect to see you here. I thought you'd be out working on the case. You've solved it then?"

Sherlock's gaze remained distant as he continued to stare unblinkingly ahead of him. He did not speak for the longest time but when he finally opened his mouth, his voice came out in a slow, irritated drawl. "Nooo."

John gaped at his flatmate in consternation. Something was very wrong with the picture in front of him. Sherlock should not, _absolutely should not_ , be sitting on the couch with a far-away, lost, helpless expression on his face and his dressing gown falling off his slender form - not in the middle of a case. No, he should be out at St. Bart's or at the Yard; he should be conducting experiments, collecting data, chasing after suspects; he should be wearing his pristine shirts or one of his various disguises. And even if he _did_ return to the flat during a case, it would be to sift through data or to retreat into his mind palace, fingers steepled under his chin and eyes closed to the world; it would most certainly _not_ be to sit dejectedly on the couch in his night clothes the way he was now. And yet, even in this state, Sherlock was perhaps the most beautiful creature John had ever seen - the way the silky robe revealed the contours of his body, how his lips could still look so plump and perfect even when they were pursued tightly in a frown. _Damn it! Damn it all to hell!_

John closed his eyes in exasperation and cursed under his breath at the way his blood was rushing downwards. He cleared his throat and tried to keep his voice steady. "How was King's College? What did you find out? Anything interesting?"

"I didn't go," Sherlock said firmly, his gaze still unblinking.

Now John was absolutely perplexed. He sat down on the couch next to his friend. "Oh…how was St. Bart's then? You must have gone there. Is Molly well?"

"I don't know, I didn't go," Sherlock muttered vacantly.

"Well, what did you do all afternoon then?"

"This," and Sherlock waved one of his hands around dramatically before letting it fall limply at his side. His frown intensified and he slid deeper into the couch.

"By this, you mean sitting here staring into space?" John asked gently, leaning forward to look at the detective with concern.

"Obviously." Sherlock's gaze flickered over to John's face then, and the doctor couldn't quite read the emotion that was burning in his friend's eyes. Was it grief? Betrayal? Hurt? Agitation? Anger? Outrage?

"Sherlock, what's wrong? Are you feeling alright?"

And John was in doctor mode, his hand moving to Sherlock's forehead to check for signs of a fever. But he had barely touched the consulting detective's pale skin when Sherlock cried out in agony and leapt from the couch with a ragged, "DO NOT TOUCH ME!"

John watched intensely as the curly-haired man moved to the window in a breathless frenzy. The room was filled with silence for a very long time - but when the detective spoke again, his voice was much calmer and steadier than it had been. "You and Mary had a row."

At this observation, John swallowed a particularly large, sticky wad of saliva. This was one of the rare moments when he resented Sherlock's acute deductive skills. But lying to the bloody genius was futile so John did the only thing he could do. He muttered in defeat, "Um…yeah, we did."

And then the poor doctor's head was in his hands, his shoulders were shuddering, and he was sniffling uncontrollably as he tried viciously to fight back tears. "Oh God, Sherlock…it's all my fault…and I just hope she can forgive me…we were having a lovely time - "

Sherlock grimaced as a sharp, twisting pain took control of his lungs. Something deep inside him snapped, and his voice came out strained and sharp. "John, I do not wish to hear about your troubles."

John's breath caught in his chest and his shoulders turned stiff. He lifted his tear-stained face slowly and looked at the detective in utter disbelief. Despite his tearful break-down, he hadn't been about to reveal the severity of his troubles: that he had moaned Sherlock's name when he had been kissing Mary. But nevertheless, Sherlock's uncaring words bit the poor doctor to the core. There was an unbearable, undesirable hurt in his red, swollen eyes. "You…you are cold, Sherlock." And with a sad shake of his head and a bitter laugh, the former army doctor stood on shaky legs and made for his room.

"John…wait…I didn't -" Sherlock grabbed John's arm in desperation.

"Sod off, you arrogant git," John spat, digging fingernails into Sherlock's wrist. Then the doctor was storming up the stairs and slamming the door to his room with every bit of military strength he could muster.

Sherlock wanted to roll his eyes in indifference but he simply stood in the middle of the living room, looking up the stairs. Finally, the detective picked up his violin and bow, and returned to the window with a sigh. He placed the delicate instrument under his chin and closed his eyes, but his arms began to throb uncomfortably. The violin and bow tumbled from his shaky grasp, landing dejectedly at his feet, and all he could do was stare at the world outside the window, lost blue eyes watching the raindrops as they landed on the cold, dark street below.


	5. Chapter 5

When John woke up the next morning, he felt a flood of emotions. He was slightly irritated. He was incredibly melancholy. But, perhaps most of all, he felt absolutely and completely ashamed.

Ashamed of the way he had yelled and lashed out at his best friend - the man who had brought the doctor back to life after Afghanistan, when everything had seemed meaningless and lonely next to the taste of adventure and adrenaline.

Ashamed because he should have known better - after all, he was perfectly aware of the fact that Sherlock did not understand how to properly address emotional situations, and yet he had placed the curly-haired man right in the centre of a particularly heavy one. And the doctor never wanted his flatmate to change - not in a million years. No, Sherlock was perfect just the way he was. Stunningly brilliant and yet endearingly innocent; astoundingly brave and yet confusingly meek; obviously good-hearted and yet hurtfully aloof; enviously observant and yet pathetically unaware. That was the charm of Sherlock Holmes, and that was why John Watson could not stop caring for him.

But John was perhaps most ashamed because last night Sherlock had obviously been grappling with some demons of his own and, really, the last thing John should have done in such a situation was to pick a fight.

It was mighty early - the sun was still fighting to rise and, in its struggle, it was painting the sky a ferocious orange. John knew that he should go back to bed; yet, when he closed his eyes next, he could clearly see his fingernails deep in Sherlock's wrist...Sherlock's pale skin turning sickeningly pink under the cruel weight of John's fingers. No...going back to sleep was out of the question.

With a sigh that could only be uttered by the heavy-hearted, the former army doctor turned onto his side and felt along the floor for his cell phone. He hadn't really expected Mary to contact him so soon after their row, but he was still disappointed to find that he had received no calls or texts during the night. Cursing under his breath, he heaved himself out of bed, placed his phone in the pocket of his cotton trousers, and headed downstairs.

However, as he entered the living room, he was greeted by a sight that both shocked him and made him smile in relief. Sherlock Holmes was sitting on the couch, but he was no longer donning dishevelled night clothes. Now he was wearing a freshly-pressed suit and form-fitting purple shirt, and he was closely inspecting a variety of newspapers, his eyes darting across the pages in concentration.

John cleared his throat. "Morning."

At the sound of John's voice, Sherlock glanced up from his studies. "Ah, you're up. Good. Here. I made you something," and he stretched forward to pick up some items from the table in front of him.

When the tall man stood up next, it was to present John with a steaming hot cup of tea and a plate of toast. A most pleasant and unusual surprise. Sherlock very rarely cooked and he certainly never made tea - those mundane tasks were left to John or Mrs. Hudson. Thus, John found his eyebrows raising in question.

Seeing the confusion on John's face, Sherlock became slightly flustered. His lips tensed and his eyes darted around the room. "For last night," he finally muttered and quickly returned to his studies.

John's mouth dropped open and his heart fluttered in delight. "You're apologizing? For last night?"

Sherlock's nose was already buried in a newspaper. "That's what friends do when they argue, is it not?"

John smiled then, a real genuine smile. "Yes...yes, that's right. That's right. Thank you. And I'm sorry too."

Sherlock did not look up from his reading, but he gave a curt nod and that was certainly more than enough to lift John's spirits tenfold.

After placing the tea and toast next to his favourite chair, the doctor moved towards the kitchen. He called over his shoulder to the mass of curls behind the newspaper, "Have you had breakfast?" He knew that his flatmate would answer in the negative, but he still felt compelled to ask, to show that he cared about the man's well-being.

"No."

"Will you eat a little yogurt? I bought some for us the other day and it's quite delicious," John ventured. Getting his flatmate to consume anything while on a case was virtually impossible but, again, he found himself compelled to try.

"No."

John rolled his eyes. "Have you had anything to drink this morning? Tea? Coffee? Water?"

"No."

God, how in the world could he care so deeply - so _fully_ \- for such an annoying, ridiculous human being? "Well, let me get you something to drink at least."

Sherlock tut-tutted under his breath, but then looked up from the paper with a contemplative expression on his flawless face. "Coffee then. Black, two sugars."

John smiled back at the stubborn man. "Coffee. Perfect. I can do that."

He went to work making the beverage with a newfound spring in his step. Never had he put so much effort into making such a simple drink before - he chose the cleanest and brightest cup in the cupboard; made sure to pick the whitest, freshest-looking sugar in the sugar bowl; and blended the drink with precision and purpose. Indeed, as soon as Sherlock took a sip of the coffee, his sea blue eyes flashed with approval.

Satisfied, John settled into his favourite chair to enjoy his tea and toast, and to watch Sherlock work. God, Sherlock was at his most beautiful when he worked - the way his eyes simply radiated with energy, how you could practically see the mounds and mounds of data untangling and dancing through his head, the healthy pale glow that seemed to take hold of his skin, the sudden energy and youth that moved his long limbs and legs. Mary was pretty - she was undeniably pretty and as sweet and warm and comfortable as fresh maple syrup on pancakes. But Sherlock...Sherlock was a tempest, wild and fierce and hard to tame, and yet a masterpiece when it all came crashing together.

Sherlock skimmed through a few more newspapers and then slammed his hands down. He began to pace the room in frustration. "Nothing...absolutely nothing!"

John took another sip of his tea and waited for Sherlock's inevitable monologue. Sure enough, a few seconds later, the detective began to speak in a hurried, excited voice. He was quick to inform John about his findings at the crime scene, and John provided a more-than-attentive audience, leaning forward in his chair so as to catch every word.

Finally, the detective pointed to the papers spread all over the couch. "Though I have carefully read the newspaper on a daily basis since childhood, I could not recall reading anything about Dr. Smithe's unexpected disappearance. Thus, I spent the early morning re-reading all the newspapers that were printed around the time period when he would have disappeared. There is nothing, absolutely nothing about his sudden absence! It's as if he completely fell from memory." Sherlock wrung at his hair in agitation.

"And that bothers you?" John asked curiously.

Sherlock scowled and tumbled back down on the couch. "He was a solitary man...much like myself. He did not appear to have any close relationships with anyone...so there was nobody to miss him at an intimate level. But...but he was a well-regarded science scholar. His work was published in reputable journals. He was intelligent. So...how could no one miss him? How could he just fall from memory? How could his life be that...insignificant?"

Sherlock looked at John with bright, open eyes and suddenly seemed to grow self-conscious. However, that vulnerability only lasted for a second. When John blinked and looked at Sherlock next, the man's angular face was clothed in a neutral expression.

Before John could open his mouth, Sherlock was speaking again. "I expect you'll be spending the morning with Mary."

John felt a fresh wave of pain at these words and quickly grabbed his phone. After checking for any missed calls or texts, his face fell. "No. No, I don't think I will be," he muttered forlornly, and focused his stare on the deep colour of the leftover tea in his mug.

The detective watched the lachrymose doctor out of the corner of his eye and finally asked, "Care to come to King's College with me? I have some questions that need to be answered."

John looked up at his flatmate then with a newfound excitement, licking his lips in anticipation of the taste of adventure. "Oh god, I would love to."

Sherlock's mouth turned up in a faint smile. "Good. Get changed."


	6. Chapter 6

"And what brings you here, gentlemen?" asked Dr. Michelle Graham, head of Undergraduate Sciences at King's College. She was a stern-looking lady with walnut-coloured hair and tight, tense eyes.

The three figures were huddled around a desk in a quaint office with a lone window that looked out onto a garden.

"I am Sherlock Holmes, and this is Dr. John Watson," Sherlock said in a voice that was warmer than usual as he gestured at the former military man. "We are here about Dr. Smithe," and, at that, the detective gave a sickeningly sweet smile. John could not help but look at the man with a mixture of admiration and disbelief; it was ridiculous how approachable the detective could be when he was acting, and yet how impossible it was for him to be cordial at any other time.

A look of confusion washed over Dr. Graham's face. "Dr. Smithe?"

"Yes, Dr. _Xavier_ Smithe," Sherlock offered, still smiling brightly.

The tense little lady continued to look confused for a moment as she muttered to herself. Finally, "Oh yes, of course, I had all but forgotten about Xavier. My, you look quite a lot like him."

Sherlock grimaced slightly, but quickly resumed his sugary expression.

"I am afraid he hasn't worked here in two years," Dr. Graham said sternly, crossing her hands on her desk.

"Yes, I know," Sherlock replied, his voice suddenly changing from warm to wavering. His beautiful sea blue eyes darted sadly towards John, who immediately took on a similar air of sorrow. "That's why John and I have come. You see, we were long-time friends of Xavier and recent events have given us reason to believe that he is..." At this, Sherlock stifled a sob. "...excuse me. We have reason to believe that he is...oh...dead...that he was actually...oh...murdered two years ago...it's all still largely a mystery and we were just hoping to get some answers."

Dr. Graham looked perplexed but, as was soon revealed, the mentioned death and killing of the professor was not the reason for her perplexity. "Dr. Smithe had friends?" she asked sharply, her eyebrows raising in skepticism.

John could have sworn that a genuine look of hurt rippled through the detective's eyes then. "Oh...well, John and I were friends with Xavier since childhood but we hadn't seen him in years, though we used to talk on the phone once in awhile. He said he so loved working here."

Dr. Graham practically snorted at the statement. "Did he tell you that? Well, he was lying. He hated it here, despised it. Thought he was above it. Wanted to teach somewhere like Oxford or Cambridge. He was always belittling our staff, questioning their intellectual abilities. He was a very arrogant man, Xavier was. Most unpleasant to be around. But he was brilliant and, for that, we were glad to have him as a faculty member."

John spoke up then. "Well, if he was belittling staff members, there must have been a lot of people here who disliked him."

Dr. Graham glanced at the garden outside her window before replying. "Everyone hated him and admired him at the same time. As I said, Dr. Watson, he was brilliant - I am sure you and Mr. Holmes are well aware of that though, of course. And how could one not admire him for his brilliance? But yes, people here despised him too. He was very arrogant, as I said - and you must have noticed that as well over the course of your friendship. He was also very cold...very cold towards people's feelings...sometimes he seemed downright heartless."

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably in his seat and, when John looked over, he was surprised to see that the detective was even whiter than usual. There were words, angry words, ricocheting against the walls of Sherlock's mind...words that had been uttered by loyal, dependable John...words that the detective could not seem to suppress. _You are cold, Sherlock. Sod off, you arrogant git._ The detective cleared his throat but, when he spoke, his voice was shaky and the sweat that had sprung up on his forehead was surely not an act. "Yes...yes, Xavier was brilliant, and his work was highly received. His work was his life, really. Did people not think it strange, then, when he suddenly disappeared? Was his presence not missed?"

Dr. Graham gave the curly-haired man a half-smile, half-smirk. "Are you suggesting that one of our faculty killed your friend, Mr. Holmes?"

Sherlock leaned forward in his chair. "Did they?"

The lady in front of him laughed. "He was a despicable man. I can't blame someone for wanting to kill him, but I highly doubt anyone here did it, though one can never be sure, can they?"

Suddenly, Sherlock's warm performance cracked down the middle and his eyes turned hard and calculating. _You are cold, Sherlock. Sod off, you arrogant git._ If only those words would stop tormenting him. His jaw clenched. "One can be sure of many things, Dr. Graham. You, as a scholar of science, should know this all too well. For instance, I am sure that you have been divorced twice, and that it was your husband who left you both times because you failed to properly satisfy him in bed. I am also sure that you are currently having a little romance with the head of the English Department, but where you think that you are his one and only, he is seeing multiple women behind your back. How do I know this? It's all science, Dr. Graham, the science of deduction. For instance, the markings on your wedding ring finger indicate - "

"That's enough, Sherlock," John's voice came, tight and harsh, and his hand moved gently but sternly onto the detective's chest.

At that, the detective straightened in his chair, his face and body relaxing to John's touch.

"Who are you?" Dr. Graham asked sharply, eyeing the curly-haired man intently.

"I'm sorry, I have been out of line. I am just someone who wants to find out what happened to a dear friend," Sherlock replied quietly.

Finally, her eyes still carefully digesting Sherlock's face, Dr. Graham slowly said, "Forgive me, Mr. Holmes. I know that you must be grieving for your friend and that you probably do not want to hear such harsh words as I have said concerning him. Yet if I may be frank. Yes, he was brilliant but, as I have just told you, he treated everyone here horribly. He was insulting, he was unrelenting, he was self-righteous, and there are many hard-working, well-deserving people fighting for the type of steady teaching position he had. So yes, forgive me, but it was easy not to miss him, it was easy to replace him. And yes, it may be argued that someone killed him for his teaching position but, as I said, I highly doubt anyone here would do such a thing. You see, just before he disappeared, he turned in his letter of resignation and he made sure that everyone knew he had accepted a teaching job overseas."

John could see the cogs and bolts shifting and grinding in Sherlock's brain.

After a moment, Dr. Graham spoke again. "Gentlemen, I beg your pardon for the less than pleasant things I have said about Xavier. But I am afraid that the Xavier I knew was different from the one you did. As I said earlier, I never would have guessed that he had any friends. The only person who seemed to care for him was Elizabeth, but I don't think I would ever consider her a friend of his."

"And who is this Elizabeth?" Sherlock questioned, his eyebrows raising.

"She was his flatmate and, for whatever ridiculous reason, she was madly in love with him. Unrequited, of course," Dr. Graham said.

"Really?" Sherlock whispered, his eyes glowing with intrigue at this pronouncement of love. "Do you happen to know where she lives?"

Dr. Graham shrugged. "No, I'm afraid not, but she may still live in the flat she shared with Xavier. He always said she was sentimental about the place - he couldn't fathom why. I can give you the address if you would like."

Sherlock nodded and rose to stand. "Yes, please." He watched with hawk-like eyes as she scrawled the address onto a scrap of paper and, upon receiving the paper, he gave the lady an endearing smile. "Thank you, Dr. Graham, you have been most helpful. Come along, John."

With that, John stood up, wished the lady a good day, and followed his friend to the door.

But just as they were about to make their escape into the light of the hallway, the detective swung back around, his long dark coat dancing around his legs. "Oh, Dr. Graham. Just one more question. Does anyone here have access to radium powder?"

"Yes, any faculty member in Sciences, as well as all of our graduate students," Dr. Graham replied. Sherlock's mouth twitched into an excited half-smile and suddenly Dr. Graham's eyes lit up with recognition. By the time the poor lady proclaimed, "Wait! Sherlock Holmes! I knew your name was familiar. You are that man with the deer-stalker who solves crimes! I read about you in the paper," he was rushing down the hallway pulling John along behind him.

John practically giggled with excitement. "So you think it was one of the staff members who hated him so much that killed him?"

Sherlock frowned down at the doctor. "No John, not at all."

The former army man looked consternated. "But it makes sense. He undermined his colleagues work, naturally that'll make some people bitter - "

Sherlock's eyes filled with deep, unreadable emotions then, and he watched John with intensity as he said, "Yes, doctor, but bitterness is a paralytic. Love, however, is a much more vicious motivator."


	7. Chapter 7

_Alexander died, Alexander was buried, Alexander  
returneth to dust, the dust is earth, of earth we make  
loam, and why of that loam whereto he was converted  
might they not stop a beer-barrel?  
Imperious Caesar, dead and turned to clay,  
Might stop a hole to keep the wind away.  
O, that that earth which kept the world in awe  
Should patch a wall t'expel the water's flaw!  
-William Shakespeare, _Hamlet__ , 5.1.198-205. 

As soon as they exited King's College, Sherlock eagerly hailed a taxi. Then, he just as eagerly gave the driver the address that Dr. Graham had scrawled on the scrap of paper.

However, a couple of minutes into the ride, John could not help but notice that his flatmate was unsettled - and not in the anxiously excited way that was customary during case-solving. No; this was a deep, brooding type of unsettledness, and it made the doctor very uneasy indeed.

Hesitantly, he cleared his throat and turned to his dark-haired friend. "I know there is probably no point in asking, but is there something on your mind?"

"There is always something going on in anyone's mind at all times. The question is whether it is an interesting something or a superficial, dull something," Sherlock said in an annoyingly sardonic tone.

"Yes, fine, be a sarcastic prat then," John spluttered exasperatedly. "You know perfectly well what I mean. Is something _bothering_ you?"

The consulting detective was silent for a long time, sucking at his bottom lip as if fighting the urge to speak. But John was patient (as any good doctor is) and, finally, _finally_ , Sherlock spoke.

"I was just reflecting on something Dr. Graham said about the victim. But it's not pertinent to the case so it is not worth my time to dwell on it - "

"You are dwelling on it, though. You have been brooding ever since we got into the car."

Sherlock gave John a sideways glance and muttered in a snarky voice, "Bravo, doctor, a sound observation, you should be proud." But then he took a profound breath (which sent his curls bouncing) and asked in a gentler tone, "Was there anything Dr. Graham said about the victim that reminded you of someone you know?"

John furrowed his eyebrows in concentration as he thought back on the conversation that had just occurred in the small office. "Uh…no, not really. I mean, she did say that he looked like you. Did he?"

"Yes," Sherlock responded quietly.

Of course, the good doctor had no idea just _how much_ Xavier had looked like Sherlock but, nevertheless, John found himself titillated by this idea. And, if truth be told, his titillation slightly horrified him - after all, it didn't seem quite right to be sexually stimulated over a man who was not only dead, but who had been murdered. Nope, that didn't seem quite right at all and, therefore, John's titillation quickly evolved into feelings of warm and giddy guilt.

Just then, Sherlock interrupted the doctor's thoughts. "She said that he was cold and arrogant."

At that, the deep wrinkles on John's forehead intensified. He watched his curly-haired friend in bewilderment. "Yes, she did say that. She didn't really have any kind things to say about him. But I don't see how that would remind me of anyone I kn - "

Sherlock was staring out the windshield now, unblinking and tense. He cut his friend off with a curt, " _You_ said _I_ was cold and arrogant. Last night."

John's eyes softened in a mixture of understanding, shame, and fondness. "Oh Sherlock, that is different. That is _totally_ different - "

Hearing these words made Sherlock's heart throb a little - a sensation that was both unpleasant and endearing. _I don't understand. Why is it different, John?_ He was about to ask John to expand on his statement when the shorter man's phone rang. Upon looking at the screen, John's face brightened significantly and he answered the call with a breathless, "Mary. Hello."

Sherlock stifled a groan and preceded to bite at his lower lip as he listened.

"How are you?...You do?...Well yes, of course…It's one of my favourite plays...Well, that sounds wonderful...Cumberwhat?...I've never heard of him...Oh, that is a rather derogatory term, isn't it?...Yes, Cumbercollective would be better, I suppose...Yes, I will be there as soon as possible…That sounds great…See you soon, Mary...Bye."

As John ended the call with a newfound youthfulness, Sherlock stared at his blogger...and where the poor detective's heart had been throbbing only seconds earlier, it now felt like someone was cutting it slowly and carefully with the pliable fingers of a fork - the sensation was painful as hell, but numbing and dull at the same time.

John's face all but glowed. "That was Mary. She has bought two tickets to see today's matinee performance of _Hamlet_ , and she has asked me to join her. It's starring some up and coming actor who has a very complicated name…Benedict Cumberbatch or something. Mary thinks that he is going to be Britain's next big talent. Apparently, he is in some detective show on BBC...she told me the name of it but I can't recall what it is at the moment. You'll find this amusing...Mary says that he is big with the ladies and that there's a group of women who call themselves the Cumberbitches or some other ridiculous name - "

"Never heard of him. I don't see how he is of any relevance to my work. Detective shows are mundane and overly simplistic. Dull," Sherlock muttered. Then, after a pause, "So I suppose you won't be assisting me in finding and questioning Elizabeth, then?" Sherlock asked in a quiet but steady voice as he tried to look emotionally neutral; but the way his bottom lip twitched revealed his disappointment. At the sight, John felt a wave of guilt wash over him...yet...no, he _shouldn't_ feel guilty...he had gone to King's College with Sherlock and now it was time to make amends with Mary.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock. You know I would love to any other time, it's just Mary and I had such a big fight last night and I am so ecstatic that she is giving me another chance." A very large smile covered the doctor's face then. "She really is a wonderful woman. Besides, you and I both know that you really don't need me to help you solve the case. If anything, I would be in the way, thinking silly things and being annoying - "

Sherlock wanted to say that no, John could never be annoying (even though, he really could be _very, very_ annoying - only Sherlock didn't care all that much when John was annoying - actually, for whatever idiotic reason, he found it rather endearing), but he remained silent and looked out the window of the cab.

"Alas, poor Yorick. I knew him, Horatio," John whispered then.

"What's that?" Sherlock asked irritably.

"Oh come on, Sherlock, you must have read _Hamlet_. You know the gravedigger scene? They are clearing out some of the old graves and Hamlet learns that one of the skulls they dig up was once the head of his old court jester, Yorick?"

Sherlock grunted. "I likely read it in university but, if I did, I have since deleted it."

"Oh, come on Sherlock, it's _Shakespeare_! You can't just delete Shakespeare!"

Sherlock grunted again. "Yes, I can and I _have_. He was far too focused on passion and other equally irrational phenomena."

John laughed at that. "Says the man who appreciates the genius of Bach, Beethoven, and Mozart."

When Sherlock raised an eyebrow, the shorter man continued, "You're telling me that music does not reflect passion? When you're angry, you pick up your violin and you play a cacophony of noise. When you're deep in contemplation, you play something methodical. When you're at peace, you play something tranquil."

"There is science behind music, John," Sherlock snapped. "Any emotions that you associate with a particular piece are simply of your own making."

"And there is science behind poetry, Sherlock. Poetry incorporates formulas and equations. Shakespeare often used iambic pentameter in his plays."

Sherlock scowled and resumed looking out the window at the passing streets.

At that, John huffed; yet he could not help but smile at how silly his friend was. "You're no fun." He reclined his head back on his seat. "Anyway, I have always enjoyed Shakespeare."

"Yes, but you have always been irrational," Sherlock sneered.

John didn't even flinch at his flatmate's words. Instead, he began to recite in an irritatingly serene voice, "We fat all creatures else to fat us, and we fat ourselves for maggots. Your fat king and your lean beggar is but variable service, two dishes but to one table. That's the end...A man may fish with the worm that hath eat of a king and eat of the fish that hath fed of that worm."

"What are you going on about this time?" Sherlock drawled irritatedly.

"Another bit from _Hamlet_. I remember when I first read that scene, it sent chills down my spine."

Sherlock rolled those big beautiful eyes of his. "Honestly, John - "

"No, really, Sherlock. It makes you think about life, I mean _really_ think about life, you know? About how we all meet the same end, no matter how great or how small we are...we all turn to dust...makes life seem rather insignificant, doesn't it?"

"That is why it is irrational to be so sentimental," Sherlock grumbled.

John chuckled then and said contemplatively, "Yeah, that's true enough...but still, it is a little frightening. I mean, come on Sherlock, someone with your massive intellect will end up the same as some blundering idiot and no one will be the wiser. No one will be able to tell the two of you apart when you're dust. Same with me. No one will know I was a doctor. I will look just the same as every other speck of dirt." John's eyes were far away and he seemed deep in reflection. "Hamlet sees all that remains of Yorick and realizes just how insignificant each of our lives is...because, in the end, Yorick, the man who made him laugh as a child, is nothing more than an unidentifiable skull. Yorick has no more identity."

"That's absurd, John. There are many identifying factors that one can observe from a skull. Ethnicity, approximate age at time of death, former injuries - " Sherlock spat.

"Yes, of course. But I mean the _soul_ of a person, Sherlock. The _soul_ of a person cannot be read in a skull."

Sherlock snorted but John continued, "And yes, perhaps you can rattle off observations about the skull on our mantelpiece. But do you know whose skull that belonged to? Do you know what their name was?"

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but quickly closed it again. He glowered and crossed his arms in front of him in a protective way, feeling very uncomfortable indeed. Suddenly, he was acutely aware of the fact that his stomach was utterly empty and the coffee that John had made him consume earlier was tumbling uneasily and unpleasantly inside him. By this time, they were pulling up in front of the flat where Dr. Xavier Smithe had once resided and Sherlock was more than happy for some fresh air.

"Well, I will see you later then?" John asked. And, though his face was cheerful, his voice sounded slightly flat.

"Obviously," Sherlock mumbled as he paid his fare.

And then, Sherlock was slamming the car door shut, John was instructing the cab driver where to go next, and the cab was off with a squeal of tires against the pavement.

As the cab drove away, Sherlock stood there and watched John travel into the distance. And John watched Sherlock's tall, slender, beautiful form...the detective was disappearing, disappearing, disappearing...nothing more than a dot of dust...until, finally, the detective was gone from sight.

\-----------------------

**Just a note, the version of Hamlet that I used for this chapter is the Arden Shakespeare 2006 edition edited by Ann Thompson and Neil Taylor. If you are looking for a superb copy of Hamlet, I highly recommend this one (or, really, if you are looking for any superb editions of Shakespeare's works, Arden Shakespeare is the way to go; the editorial notes are always fantastic and the plays are very much kept in their true form as much as any Shakespeare play can be). Here are the citations (aside from the top passage, because it has already been cited):**

**"Alas, poor Yorick. I knew him, Horatio." 5.1.174.**

**"We fat all creatures else to fat us, and we fat ourselves for maggots. Your fat king and your lean beggar is but variable service, two dishes but to one table. That's the end...A man may fish with the worm that hath eat of a king and eat of the fish that hath fed of that worm." 4.3.21-27.**


	8. Chapter 8

As the cab that carried John away turned a corner and vanished from sight, Sherlock moved his gaze toward the brick building behind him. With a sigh, he walked up to the door of the flat; it was covered in crawling ivy. He observed the twists and turns of the plant for a moment as he tried to clear his mind of the conversation that had taken place in the cab. Finally, he rang the doorbell and stood back on his heels, waiting. The air carried a frigid chill and, each time he exhaled, puffs of mist escaped his mouth and tickled his face.

Soon, he heard light footsteps approaching from within the flat and he was not surprised when, moments later, a woman opened the door. His eyes moved from the top of her head to the tips of her toes in a matter of seconds. She was slender but her muscles were long, lean, and strong. Her shoulder-length hair was down, but specks of hairspray around her scalp and an indent in her auburn waves indicated that it had recently been styled up and away from the face. Her knees and feet were turned out, her toenails were bruised, and her toes were covered in blisters. _Ballet dancer - obvious._ The detective's lips turned up in a smirk.

"May I help you?" the dancer asked.

"Elizabeth?"

The auburn-haired woman nodded before repeating her original question, her eyes digesting the detective's face with wonder.

Sherlock smiled cordially. "I'm here about Xavier Smithe. It's my understanding he used to live here."

At these words, the poor woman looked utterly bewildered. "Yes, he did, but I'm afraid I haven't seen him in two years."

Sherlock moved forward a step before saying gently, "Xavier disappeared two years ago because he was murdered."

Elizabeth turned horribly pale at that, and her small hands moved to her chest in distress.

The consulting detective glanced at her hands before giving her a sympathetic look, his eyes melting softly. "I am working with New Scotland Yard right now - "

"You - " Elizabeth interrupted in a shaky voice. " - you're Sherlock Holmes, aren't you? People come to you with a mystery that needs solving, and you figure it out. I saw you on the telly, and I thought you looked so much like Xavier. "

Sherlock flinched inwardly at that statement and, since the woman knew who he was (with John's idiotic blog spiking the media's curiosity, the detective was really getting far too much unwanted attention), he dropped his mask of cordiality. His face took on a look of impatience and austerity as he said in a hard voice, "Yes. Now I am rather tired of standing in the cold, so let me in and we will discuss Xavier from there. "

Elizabeth watched him with big eyes before moving away from the door and, with a brisk step, the curly-haired man entered the warmth of the flat.

A few minutes later, he and Elizabeth were sitting across from one another in the living room. A healthy fire crackled in the hearth nearby.

Silent tears were tumbling down the woman's face, and Sherlock found himself eerily comforted by her show of care and sadness for the deceased man. It was a refreshing change from the seeming indifference that had plagued the victim thus far.

The detective leaned in, and said in a voice far more quiet and tender than usual, "You loved Xavier."

Elizabeth laughed through her tears. "Yes, I did...once." There was a long pause as the woman looked pathetically at her hands. "Have you ever been in love, Mr. Holmes?"

It was difficult to throw the detective off-guard, but that question certainly did. Sherlock sat up and cleared his throat, surprised to find that his heart was beginning to speed up. "No," he responded quickly.

Elizabeth gave a sad smile and shook her head. "Well then, perhaps you won't understand what I mean when I say that love can make you foolish."

Sherlock's expression became sharp and indignant then. "No, I understand completely. Love is an unstable emotion that gets in the way of reason - "

The woman half-chuckled, half-groaned as she interrupted. "You sound so much like Xavier. God, I adored him. But when I told him that, he practically sneered at me. He kept on saying that anyone who loved was an idiot, that love made people act irrationally. He was insulting and snide and conceited and I could tell that I annoyed him. He spent most of his time in his room...he really did not want to be around me...but...but still I was foolish enough to keep on loving him. I couldn't help it. He was so brilliant. His mind...it...it dazzled me...it intrigued me. He was so smart and he was so cruel."

More tears tumbled down her cheeks and Sherlock looked away, suddenly uneasy. Where he had once thought the warmth of the fire comforting, he now found it unbearably hot.

He glanced around the small flat, his eyes falling on tables, chairs, a bookshelf. The kitchen and the living area were really one big room, and off to the side was a narrow hallway.

At the corner of the living room was a baby grand piano. The instrument had been treated with the finest of care; it was spotless, save for an area by the music stand where a dull circle shaped like the bottom of a cup had stained the wood. The piano was also quite dusty, indicating that it had not been touched in awhile.

Then his gaze fell to the floor of the living room. It was wooden and freshly polished; beautiful and unscratched save for two areas by a queen-sized bed where the floor dipped in barely noticeable circles and the colour of the wood was slightly lighter. The queen-sized bed was unmade, the comforter in a messy pile at the edge of the mattress.

Next, he looked down the hallway to find that there were two more rooms in the flat: a bathroom and, behind that, a bedroom.

When the detective's gaze flickered back to the dancer's face, she had wiped her tears and was breathing steadier.

"The piano belonged to Xavier," Sherlock said, voice low.

"Yes," Elizabeth replied. "About a month after he disappeared, I sold his things...my job doesn't pay well and I need all the help I can get. But I couldn't bear to part with the piano. He played it so beautifully...and he seemed almost human in those moments. I loved listening to Ryan and him create music together." A cheerful nostalgic look was now on her face.

"Ryan?" the detective asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Yes, Ryan. I've known him for many years. He is an accompanist for my ballet classes, that's how we met...he plays the flute. Xavier didn't have friends, really, but he tolerated Ryan more than he did most people."

"Ryan is also your current flatmate, and your boyfriend," Sherlock said matter-of-factly.

Elizabeth looked surprised, mildly amused, and slightly horrified. "The telly wasn't lying, you really are freakishly bright. How did you guess?"

"I didn't guess, I observed," the detective drawled. "You said yourself that your job does not pay well and that you need all the financial aid you can get, so it only makes sense that you would find a new flatmate once it was evident Xavier was not returning. The books on your bookshelf are predominantly relating to the flute - books about flute music, the history of the flute, and the world's best flute players - so your flatmate is obviously a flautist. Ryan it is, then. Secondly, the queen-sized bed in the corner. There are dips made by bodies on both sides of the mattress, so two people have clearly been sleeping in it. You said earlier that Xavier kept to his room and, since there is only one bedroom in this flat, the bedroom was his, while you slept out here - obviously. This is your bed, then, and so the dips in the bed were made by you and a lover. Thirdly, the floor has been recently polished so it is easy to see where dirt has been made by foot traffic. There has been foot traffic through this area and to the bathroom, but there is no dirt going back towards the bedroom which would indicate that your flatmate has not been returning to their room. Why? It is your flatmate who has been sharing your bed."

"Yes," the woman whispered in awe. "Yes...yes, you're right. Ryan and I started dating about a month before Xavier disappeared, though Ryan came by the flat for several months before then to meet with Xavier. Ryan was always into the sciences, but he was dreadfully intimidated by them at the same time. When he heard that my flatmate was a science professor, he immediately wanted to meet him. And when Xavier heard that Ryan was a musician, he was equally intrigued. They made a deal. Ryan would teach Xavier to play the flute, and Xavier would take Ryan to the university lab to show him experiments. Every Sunday evening, Ryan would come over to teach Xavier. They would always end their lesson by putting on a little show for me, Xavier playing the piano and Ryan playing the flute...it was very lovely. Xavier really liked to show off, you know? And then, every Monday, Xavier took Ryan to the lab at the university and they did experiments. They weren't friends, really, but Xavier loved music and so he tolerated Ryan," Elizabeth said in a slightly flustered voice.

Sherlock stood, then, and moved to the piano. "Here," he pointed at the circular stain on the wood. "What is this from? A cup?"

"Yes, Xavier used to drink a cup of chocolate milk when he played the piano. He said it stimulated his brain," Elizabeth answered with a soft smile.

"Where'd he get the chocolate milk?"

"I made it for him with milk and powder," Elizabeth said, looking slightly embarrassed. "He was lactose intolerant so we had to buy special milk. It didn't come in chocolate, only in white, so I always bought chocolate powder and mixed it in. He was too lazy to make it himself, but I knew how much he liked it. I'd always make it for him whenever I heard him playing." After a pause, "At first, it really bothered Ryan that I took the effort to do it, but eventually he didn't seem to mind anymore."

Sherlock was pacing the room now. "Did anyone else drink this chocolate powder?"

"No, just Xavier. But it lasts a very long time, it has a very long shelf life, so I kept some. I figured if we had guests come over, I could make them hot cocoa or something...not that we ever have had guests but - "

"So you still have some of the powder?" the detective asked sharply.

"Yes."

"May I take it, please?"

Elizabeth looked puzzled by the question, but she nodded. "Sure. I really don't have anymore use for it. Here, let me get it for you."

She rose from her chair and walked over to a kitchen cupboard where she promptly pulled down a metal container. As soon as she handed the container to the detective, he opened the lid and peered at the contents with glowing eyes as he asked, "Didn't you think it strange when Xavier disappeared?"

"Not really." Elizabeth sat back down in her chair. "He was always very solitary and I knew that he had accepted a job overseas so...you know...I just assumed that he had moved and didn't want to bother transporting all of his goods. He wasn't really the type to say good bye - "

Sherlock interrupted her. "How soon after Xavier's disappearance did Ryan move in?"

"When it was obvious that Xavier wasn't coming back, so after about a month. I couldn't manage the rent on my own and we were dating, so it made sense."

The detective's fingers were once again steepled under his chin. "What did Ryan say about Xavier's disappearance?"

"Not much. He was sad the trips to the lab had to end, but he knew that Xavier was a solitary type of person so I guess he wasn't surprised that I didn't receive a good bye," Elizabeth said somewhat forlornly.

"May I speak with Ryan?"

Elizabeth shook her head. "I'm afraid that he is out of town until tomorrow afternoon..."

"Ah, how convenient," Sherlock muttered, watching the woman in front of him with an intense stare. "What's his last name?"

"Jones," she replied.

Sherlock continued to watch her. "Judging by the state of your hands, you shoot a gun on a regular basis."

"Yes," Elizabeth said truthfully, blushing slightly. "I go to the shooting range. I find it helps my concentration skills, and being able to concentrate is key as a dancer. I actually got Ryan into it too. He goes with me now, he finds it relaxing."

"I see," Sherlock replied, a small smile flashing across his plump lips.

The woman before him had a silly grin on her face now. "He's really a wonderful guy, Ryan. I am so much happier now that I am with him. He told me that he had initially been afraid to say he was interested in me because of how much I adored Xavier." She giggled foolishly and sadly. "I wasted all those months lusting for someone who would never want to be with me...and...I just wish that Ryan had told me how he felt sooner." She looked up at Sherlock with eager eyes then. "I know you say you have never been in love, Mr. Holmes but, if you ever do fall in love with someone, please don't hesitate to tell them. You may say that love makes us act irrationally, and maybe it does. But it is the most wonderful feeling to be in love. So if you ever find that you are, you _need_ to tell that special someone because...you don't want to lose them...you don't want them to find someone else..."

Sherlock pulled at the collar of his shirt. The heat of the fire was horridly unpleasant. It felt like it was practically burning through his clothing. His skin itched and ached and throbbed, his clothing ripped into his flesh painfully, and his throat was pasty and dry. He coughed heavily and, when he inhaled next, it felt like his tonsils were collapsing. He stood quickly, lunged at his scarf and coat, and was at the door in a matter of seconds. He barely turned to the auburn-haired girl as he croaked out a frantic, "I need to go now."

And then he was gone.

\-------------------------------

As soon as Sherlock returned to 221B Baker Street, he dumped his unworn scarf and coat on the floor and rushed into his room. His palms were seeped in sweat, and he struggled desperately to unbutton his shirt and to wiggle his legs out of his trousers and pants. He was caked in a sticky, sickening sweat from head to toe and, once he discarded his clothes and saw his pale, clammy reflection, he knew he had to take a shower.

When the lukewarm water hit his skin, he practically purred in relief. He reached for a bar of soap and rapidly scrubbed his pale arms and legs - but, though the mixture of soap and water ripped the sweat from his body and cleansed his skin, his mind was still in a panic. And this was a panic that the healing powers of water could not clean.

His mind was racing, reeling, in overdrive. And not because of the case. Not at all. Frankly, he considered the case to be basically solved. He was 99.9% positive of who the murderer was, and he was 99.9% positive of how and why the murder had occurred - but, of course, he had to be 100% certain. And it would be very simple, really, to gain that extra 0.1%. The final steps would be 1) to visit the local shooting range to study the bullets of the guns and 2) to go to St. Bart's, compare the bullets from the guns at the shooting range to the bullet embedded in the victim's neck, test the victim's body for radium poisoning, and examine the chocolate powder retrieved at Elizabeth's flat. All of that could be achieved in a matter of hours and that is precisely where Sherlock's mind should have been.

But, instead, the detective's mind was absorbed with a very different thought, and that thought was Dr. John Watson. Sherlock kept hearing John's words in the cab. _But I mean the soul of a person...The soul of a person cannot be read in a skull._ Sherlock kept seeing John's face: the deep wrinkles on his forehead, the tender fire that burned in his eyes, the softness of his hair. John, John, John.

With a moan, Sherlock jumped out of the shower, dried himself in a fury, threw the towel violently on the bathroom floor, and ran back to his room. He pulled on his night clothes hastily and, in his mad state, he completely and utterly forgot that he really should wear pants underneath his trousers. In fact, he was in such a fluster that he could barely pull his cotton trousers up his legs and, as he flew from his room, they hung precariously low and loose on his hips.

His eyes were smouldering blue, green, gold, and grey, and they were focused on only one thing: the skull on the mantelpiece. He gritted his teeth as he grabbed at it and then he was flopping into a kitchen chair, hands caressing the bone, trousers sliding down with his mind as he slipped into the depths of his mental palace.

_If you ever do fall in love with someone, please don't hesitate to tell them. You don't want to lose them. You don't want them to find someone else._

_Love is an unstable emotion that gets in the way of reason._

_Love can make you foolish._

_I will not make the mistake of caring. Don't you see that it is a disadvantage?_


	9. Chapter 9

John walked back to Baker Street with a spring in his step and a grin on his face. His time with Mary had been lovely, absolutely lovely. The play was wonderful (Benedict Cumberbatch had proven a most excellent choice for Hamlet), dinner afterwards was wonderful, Mary was wonderful, it was all just _wonderful_.

John had no idea how he had gotten so lucky. Not many women would have forgiven so easily for his horrible mistake the other night. But Mary...she was different...she was special. As soon as they met outside the theatre, she had rushed forward to embrace the doctor and to apologize for their row. She went on to say that she understood how important Sherlock was to John. What's more, she emphasized that she respected John's relationship with the detective, and made it known she wanted to be a support to the men, someone who brought their friendship together rather than pulled it apart.

And right after she uttered these compassionate, amazing, sweet sweet sweet words, John knew that he could fall in love with this woman. She was quite different from Sherlock. Unlike the detective, she was stable, steady, reliable, and dependable - and John realized that this was not a bad thing. In fact, it was something that would balance the electrifying friendship and partnership he and his flatmate shared. So John Watson leaned in and kissed Mary Morstan's happy lips and, for those few beautiful seconds, all of the world was unified in harmony and bliss - from the frigid corners of the arctic to the hottest edges of the tropics.

His weathered hands and her delicate fingers stayed intertwined for the rest of the day - during the performance, as they walked to dinner, and even as they sipped their wine and enjoyed their food. John found himself moaning when they reached Mary's front door and it was time to say goodbye. But his moan of disappointment turned into a moan of pleasure when the pretty little woman leaned forward and grabbed his lips in a rough, heavy kiss.

Thus, as the former army doctor entered the living room of 221B, his thoughts were on Mary and only Mary. He could smell her, he could taste her, he could feel her gentle touch in his hand still, and all he could see was...Sherlock. SHERLOCK! Suddenly, John stopped short, his heart catching in his throat and threatening to choke him to death as it increased to a terrifying, powerful speed - for right in front of him was the most dizzying, beautiful, enticing, and absolutely tantalizing, tormenting sight that he had ever laid eyes on.

The curly-haired consulting detective was sitting in the kitchen, completely absent to the sights and sounds of Baker Street. He was deep in his mind palace, his full lips slightly parted, his eyes closed, his long eyelashes falling serenely against his porcelain skin, his slender fingers steepled elegantly under his sharp chin. The skull from the mantelpiece was peacefully watching from the kitchen table.

Sherlock's face was the epitome of grace and beauty and, yet, that is not what had John's attention. No. John's attention was in a much more southern region, and the poor doctor's face was frozen in a look of pain, lust, desire, and sheer horror. The detective was wearing clothes. He was _definitely_ wearing clothes. It's just, he was not wearing them with the care that he usually did. For someone who claimed that his body was merely transport for his mind, Sherlock certainly took great pride in his appearance. He only wore the finest, most expensive clothing, and he always made sure that everything was well-pressed, lint-free, and perfectly in place. Heck, even when the man chose to wear nothing but a bed sheet (which happened more often than you might expect), he was picky about the fabric and somehow managed to drape the sheet gracefully and modestly around his slender body. But the man currently sitting at the kitchen table had very clearly thrown these clothes (a light grey nightshirt and royal blue cotton trousers) on in haste. Especially the trousers, which were barely on his bony hips and hardly left anything to the imagination. There on the kitchen chair for all the flat to see was a very exposed arse...and it belonged to Sherlock Holmes.

John told himself to stop looking - it was not right for him to stare. No, he really should tell Sherlock. After all, what if Mrs. Hudson came in? She often stopped by to see how the two men were doing or to bring by some cooking, and Sherlock would likely be mortified if she witnessed him in such a state. Yes, John decided that the right thing to do would be to gently tell Sherlock to pull his trousers up a bit. But as he walked forward and witnessed the look of pure concentration on the detective's face, the way those luscious brown curls fell across his forehead, that flawless milky skin, and...oh dear god...those plump, plump arse cheeks ( _Damn it, John! Don't look at them! Stop!_ ), he thought better of it. After all, it wasn't right to disturb the man when he was so deep into his mind palace. No, the best thing to do would be to leave the detective alone and walk away. John should just go to his room and act like he had not seen any of this. Yes, that was the best option. 

And with that, the doctor made a sharp turn and headed for the stairs leading to his bedroom. But as his hand touched the banister and he made to ascend, he found himself looking back for one last peek. Damn it all to Hell, Sherlock Holmes was truly the most beautiful creature on the face of this earth. Those very plump, very pale, and infuriatingly firm arse cheeks...and that very dark crevice of an arse crack travelling in a perfect line down the middle of that porcelain skin. Suddenly, John wanted his tongue to journey down that deep crevice, to explore the mysteries that lay there - the tastes, the sights, the sounds. Oh how John longed to open that crevice, to stretch it to its breaking point and discover the forbidden, sacred cave within. The idea of entering Sherlock sent John's stomach tumbling in hysterical pleasure - and John was gone, his blood rushing to his crotch, his knees giving way underneath him, everything around him blurring except for Sherlock bloody Holmes and his stupid, annoying, frustratingly marvellous arse.

The former military man didn't know how it happened, how he (he, who had faced battle with an unshakeable strength) lost his willpower. But lose it he did. He was tumbling into his favourite chair, pulling down his trousers, yanking at his pants, his manhood absolutely hungry and swelling. And then his hand was pumping up and down his length, and he was spilling spilling spilling into his pants, biting his tongue to keep from screaming, all the while his eyes never wavering from Sherlock, from the two creamy boulders separated by that deep, dark, marvellous crack.

But suddenly the detective began to stir and John sat up in horror. The doctor moved faster than he ever had before, pulling his trousers up with shaky hands and hurrying to his room. Then, he made a less than elegant dive for the bed where he spent the longest time biting into a pillow to stifle his hurried breathing.

\-------------------------------------------

When Sherlock left the comfort of his mind palace and opened his eyes to the light of the flat, the air was silent. He and the skull were alone. He reached a hand out to rub the skull's smooth head, a sad smile on his face. Yet, when he felt a cool breeze brushing him in an area that it definitely shouldn't be, he sat bolt upright. His long fingers reached back to discover that a very large portion of his arse was exposed to the world. His jaw clenched in mortification and he quickly guided his trousers up to his waist, breathing a sigh of relief that John was not home yet.

Yes, Sherlock often said that his body was merely transport for his mind - and he truly believed this. But, while his mind was strong, it was held back by the annoying weaknesses of the body, such as the need for food, drink, and sleep. And while Sherlock required less sustenance and rest than most, he was still human. To be human was to be vulnerable. Naturally, Sherlock Holmes hated to look vulnerable because he hated to look so weakly human.

The detective hid his humanity behind elegant shirts, long coats, and tailored suits which enhanced his height and hugged his form in all the right places. He knew he was good-looking; _better_ than good-looking because his metamorphic eyes, bleach-white skin, and cello-like voice gave him a strangely unique, almost other-worldly appearance. And so, he dressed in a way to highlight these striking features, to emphasize his mysterious, enigmatic aura. To be naked was to be the epitome of vulnerable. For instance, if one were to see the detective's bare body, they would observe that he was not really as tall as he seemed and that, though his thin frame may look appealing under a suit, it appeared much more bony and frail in reality.

And, further, it was when one was naked that one gave into the finer emotions of lust and desire in the act of sex. It was when one was naked that they let go of all reason to have their mind clouded by the rush of passion that came with making love. It was when one was naked that they were completely at the mercy of another, that they revealed the depths of their caring for that person, and that they, therefore, lay themselves out on a platter to be hurt. _Caring is not stable, John. It is not based on reason. It is not rational. It makes the mind weak. Because if you care, you will get hurt._

So perhaps now you will understand why Sherlock Holmes never _ever_ wanted to be seen naked. Perhaps now you will understand that this was the most naked he had ever been outside of the privacy of his bedroom or bathroom. Perhaps now you will understand why he was so mortified to find that he had just exposed more of himself than he ever ever wanted to. Perhaps now you will understand why he was so incredibly relieved that John was not yet home and, therefore, had not seen the detective's near-naked shame and vulnerability.

But wait. As Sherlock's sea blue eyes darted around the flat, a knot formed in his throat. There was a dent in John's favourite chair that had not been there before...and the chair was an inch closer than it had been previously. Which meant that it had recently been sat in. As the detective inhaled, the knot in his throat tightened; there was a faint but fresh chlorine-like odour filling the air that most certainly had not been there earlier.

Observing a scene generally left the detective feeling smug and satisfied, while those around him were sent into blushes of humiliation. But this time it was quite different - this time, Sherlock Holmes' face was burning as red as a Baldwin apple.

The detective's face was burning out of sheer and utter humiliation. Yet it was not only humiliation at John's having witnessed (and responded to) his vulnerability. No, there was also the humiliation of realizing that he had thought - if only for a second - that if anyone were to see him in a vulnerable state, were to react to his being in a vulnerable state, he would very much like it to be his loyal, dependable, wonderful blogger.

And perhaps the most humiliating part of all was the realization that he, Sherlock Holmes, world's only consulting detective, was far more human than he had ever imagined.

Emotions. How disgusting. And yet, how intriguing.


	10. Chapter 10

John lay with a pillow jammed up his mouth for longer than he cared to imagine. And even when his heart rate and breathing finally calmed down, sleep proved impossible. Every time his eyelids drooped with exhaustion, his mind would fill with images of his flatmate sitting at the kitchen table in unbearably low trousers. Then John's eyes would shoot open in panic and he would will himself into reliving his most recent date with Mary. He would concentrate on her delicate smile, the way her cheeks glowed rosy with joy as she watched _Hamlet_ , the softness of her dainty little hands, the alluring colour of her blue blue eyes...how the blue would transform into sea green mixed with gold and grey, so impenetrable and mysterious and easy to get lost in and...NO, NO, _NO_! Damn it all to Hell, John didn't know how in the world it happened but Mary's eyes somehow turned into Sherlock's. Needless to say, John was still awake by the time the rising sun was caressing the peaks of London's buildings.

The doctor's stomach grumbled hungrily and he longed for a nice cuppa, some toast, and a hot shower to cut his weariness. But the creaking of footsteps and rustling of newspaper from downstairs kept him under the covers of his bed. He couldn't bear to see his flatmate - and he knew that he was being utterly ridiculous because Sherlock didn't know what had happened last night, Sherlock couldn't _possibly_ know what had happened last night, the detective had been completely lost in his mind and John had disappeared at the first signs of movement. But none of that mattered; John still firmly believed that starving would be a much more pleasant experience than seeing his curly-haired flatmate would be.

However, when his bladder began to ache, the doctor cursed under his breath and realized that he had no choice but to get up. He shivered as he threw the warmth of the covers away from his body. The chilly air sent him springing out of bed to find a jumper. He grabbed a clean one made of brown wool, gratefully throwing it on before glancing at his reflection in the mirror. He looked utterly dreadful. His hair stuck in every angle, his eyes were bloodshot, the bags under his eyes were a horrid shade of purple. And still, he didn't look as awful as he felt at the realization that he was about to leave the safety and security of his room. But when his stomach sent another wave of hungry vibrations through his body and that caused his bladder to practically burst, he opened his door. With a shuddering sigh, he stepped out into the flat and bee-lined for the bathroom.

\-------------------------------------

When John entered the kitchen to make tea, he found Sherlock at the table, looking at the latest newspaper. And this time, in place of haphazard night clothes, the detective wore an immaculate black suit and ivory-coloured shirt.

John wanted to act as normal as possible. If anyone would know that something was bothering the former military man, it would most surely be the world's only consulting detective. So John pursed his lips, put the kettle on, and asked his friend, "Would you like some tea?" Much to his dismay, his voice came out squeakier than he had intended.

Sherlock did not respond to the question, continuing to keep his focus firmly on the paper. This lack of response was not particularly unusual - in fact, it was quite normal. Yet, when John eyed his flatmate, he did notice something that was out of the ordinary: though the detective's eyes were sharp, they were still...they were not darting back and forth feverishly the way they did when Sherlock was busy reading. No. Though Sherlock was adamantly concentrating on the pages in front of him, he was only staring at them, he was _not_ absorbing them. Which was very unusual since the detective generally studied the newspaper with a relish.

The kettle whistled and John carried it over to the kitchen table along with two mugs and a box of English Breakfast. He was beginning to relax a little at the thought of a nice steamy cup of tea, but this sense of calm was very short-lived - for, as the doctor reached towards a mug, so too did his flatmate and weathered fingers tangoed with long, pale ones. John gasped, drawing his hand back sharply and knocking the mugs to the floor. They bounced harshly once, twice, before shattering into pieces. And the poor doctor was left breathing heavily, cursing, and scrambling for a broom and dustpan.

Sherlock looked at John critically, frowning as he took in the man's unkempt hair and weary eyes. Finally, he muttered irritably, "Well, you're in lovely form this morning and you look even better."

John was on his hands and knees trying to clean up the broken shards of glass. It was certainly not the most comfortable position; even less so when a certain curly-haired genius was not willing to lift a finger to help. So perhaps it comes as no surprise that, at his flatmate's words, poor John scowled and said, "Ah, you're really cheeky, aren't you?" But, as soon as the words escaped his lips, a vivid image from the night before - one which consisted of his flatmate and, more precisely, his flatmate's arse cheeks - immediately filled his mind. He clasped a hand over his mouth as his face began to burn a hideous shade of red.

Sherlock was equally humiliated by the doctor's words, but the detective certainly did not want to reveal his embarrassment. He hurriedly placed the newspaper in front of his blushing cheeks, sucking at his bottom lip as he tried to keep his breathing steady. But something inside him cracked, something inside him burned, something inside him twisted and churned. Before he knew what he was doing, he had thrown the paper down on the table and spat in an angry voice, "Oh, do grow up, Doctor!"

John glanced at the curly-haired man apprehensively and, upon noticing the usually pale cheeks tinged in pink, swallowed heavily with dread.

"Gluteus maximus is a perfectly normal part of the anatomy," Sherlock hissed, leaning across the table. "Everybody has one, in fact you as a doctor have seen more of them than you probably care to count, so stop acting like mine is unusual!"

When John stared into Sherlock's sharp, penetrating eyes and found judgment and even something akin to hurt in them, he realized that Sherlock knew...Sherlock knew what had happened the night before. _Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit._ Suddenly, John felt dizzy, nauseous, and so incredibly foolish.

"You know," the poor doctor finally whispered in disbelief, placing his head in his hands. "You know about last night...of course you do...bloody hell...how could I be such an idiot to think you wouldn't notice...you of all people...you and your massive intellect...bloody hell...you know..."

A thick, unbearable tension filled the room as John's stomach churned viciously and sickeningly, vomit threatening to bubble up into his throat and spill out of his mouth. But what did find its way up the doctor's throat was certainly not what he had expected. No. It was a tickling, bubbling, warm fuzzy something that came spilling forth. That something was laughter. John didn't know how or why he was laughing, but laughing he was. It was mirthful, silly, contagious laughter that sounded like the tingling of bells; a full-throated, stomach-crushing type of laughter that sent the body into aches of joy.

For a moment, Sherlock stared at his flatmate in utter shock. But then, the curly-haired man started to chuckle too, a low sound that erupted from the deepest part of his gut. And the two men laughed in unison for many minutes, clutching at their sides and gasping for air.

As their giggling died down, John felt his shoulders relax and a giddy calm fill his mind. A comfortable silence ensued, with Sherlock looking out the wide window and John finishing his sweep of broken glass.

While the doctor grabbed two more mugs from the cupboard and poured the contents of the kettle into each, Sherlock broke the silence, clearing his throat and asking in a nonchalant voice, "Did you enjoy your day with Mary?"

A nostalgic smile lit John's face as he remembered the play and dinner and the loveliness of it all. "Yes, very much." He padded over to the toaster, humming to himself as he set about slicing bread.

Sherlock watched John for a few moments with brows furrowed and eyes unblinking, taking in every aspect of the man's face. When he spoke again, his voice was flat. "So there was no sentiment attached to it."

"What's that?" the doctor asked, frowning with confusion as he placed bread into the toaster.

The detective gave his flatmate an agitated look as if it should be completely obvious what he was referring to. Then he said in a tone that should have sounded matter-of-fact, but which appeared instead to be teetering between making a statement and asking a question, "Last night. When you masturbated. There was no sentiment attached to the act - " 

Well, at that, John shifted his weight uncomfortably; he felt puzzled, perplexed, rattled, and he could have sworn that there was a look of disappointment in the detective's eyes. He had no idea how to answer the statement...or had it been a question? Clearing his throat, the good doctor said, "Well. That's a positive thing though, isn't it? What is it you always say...that sentiment is a chemical defect found on the losing side?"

And then the detective's face was once again emotionless and unreadable, and John thought that perhaps he had imagined the look of disappointment that had grazed those angular features only seconds before. "Right. Of course it is," the detective said. "I am glad that your need to masturbate was not fuelled by sentiment, though of course your inability to control your sexual drive is a chemical defect in itself." But here, the detective's voice became agitated. "And regardless, you are still a creature of sentiment, it's just that your sentiments have shifted. There was a time when you were hopelessly attracted to me. You kissed me with purpose the night I rescued you at the pool. But the distant look in your eyes and the disgustingly sappy smile that came when I asked about your date with Mary...you are growing increasingly affectionate of her."

John gave Sherlock an exasperated look, his mouth hanging open as he found himself once again at a loss for words. He turned his attention to buttering his toast, spreading the butter thickly, evenly, and none-too-gently across the bread until it crumbled in the middle. "What are you saying, Sherlock? What do you want me to say? You broke the kiss at the pool...you...you walked away! Why are you bringing this up now?" John gave one final dramatic sweep of his knife, threatening to slash the toast into tiny little pieces. When he dared to look at the detective, he found that pale, beautiful face utterly expressionless. Taking a deep breath, he said in a calmer, steadier voice, "I like Mary more and more every day. She is wonderful. I am very happy that she is my girlfriend...And I am happy that you are my best friend. You will always be important to me."

Sherlock's gaze remained on the former army doctor and those sea blue eyes began to glow with a newfound and incredibly intense interest. Suddenly, "John..."

The doctor was quite startled by the sense of urgency in the detective's voice, and he looked up with alarm. "What?"

"You still...I observe that you still...also...would you..." Sherlock began slowly, his voice suddenly much quieter than usual, much more hesitant. "...nevermind." And, with that, the detective stood abruptly and walked into his room, slamming the door behind him.

Well, poor John was absolutely flustered. He was beyond befuddled. He was stupefied without a doubt. He ate his toast in one vicious bite and downed his tea in one violent gulp - it burned a slithering trail down his throat and esophagus. He needed a shower. He needed fresh air. He needed a walk. He needed space.

And he needed to see Mary - dependable, firm, steady Mary. His brain was absolutely, positively shaken and he longed to hold onto the stability that was her. Right now. He would go _right now_. To Hell with how he looked. He would shower when he got to her place.

He walked past the mantelpiece towards his shoes and coat, but something caught his eye. Something that hadn't been there the morning before. The skull was back at its usual post, and placed underneath it was a small, white item. At closer glance, John realized that it was a slip of paper covered in Sherlock's writing. The doctor gently slid the piece of paper out from its hiding spot and eyed the elegant cursive with curiosity. This is what he read:

_You are a male, British, who passed away due to severe cranial trauma when you were around fifty years of age. You clearly loved adventurous activities, as is evident from the various head injuries you sustained through the years. Perhaps your love for adventure is what killed you in the end, but I believe one of the most splendid ways to die is by doing something you enjoy. I am like you in that I too crave adventure, something dangerous and exhilarating with which to engage my mind. I am sorry that I do not know your name, but I do understand an integral part of you, a piece of what people like John Watson would call your soul. You have not fallen from memory._


	11. Chapter 11

It was afternoon, and the uncomfortable encounter between detective and doctor in the kitchen of 221B was hours in the past. Now 221B was vacant save for the skull on the mantelpiece and some dismembered body parts in the fridge.

In one of the many state-of-the-art laboratories of St. Bart's Hospital, Sherlock Holmes rose from a table. The table was laden with a microscope, a set of bullets strewn in disarray, a book on radioactivity, and the container from Elizabeth, the lid of which had been carefully secured.

As the detective turned to grab his dark scarf from the chair behind him, a one Molly Hooper entered the room. Sweet, courageous, smart pathologist Molly Hooper. Warm-eyed, soft-haired Molly Hooper. The Molly Hooper who had so much heart to offer and whose heart had been broken over and over again; who once believed that she was in love with the detective and who would always love him in some way. This Molly Hooper approached Sherlock hesitantly at first, but her steps became more confident as she moved closer to his slender form. Determinedly, she cleared her throat.

"Is everything alright?" she asked.

Sherlock did not respond, dramatically tying his scarf around his long, slender neck and refusing to look at the young woman.

Molly frowned slightly before trying again. "Solved the case, then?" She offered a semi-bright, semi-nervous smile.

"Yes," the answer was sharp. The detective was now pulling his long coat around his slim frame. "I was just leaving."

Molly took a deep breath as she watched the curly-haired man. She may not be as observant as he, but she was intelligent and had a keen eye when it came to the emotional realm of the human, so she noted the tense muscles running through the detective's shoulders and the thick, tight way that his jaw was clenched. "What's wrong?" she finally asked in a firm, concerned voice.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and stared at the pathologist with silence before finally muttering in an irritated voice, "Nothing is wrong. Now if you will excuse me, I owe our murderer a visit – "

Molly reached out and grabbed the curly-haired man's arm as he tried to hurry away. "No. Something is _very_ wrong. You had the victim's body delivered to the morgue days ago, and yet you have only just come in this afternoon."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed at the pathologist, irritation boiling in their icy blue depths. "I've been busy."

Molly shook her head vehemently. "You're never too busy to solve a case. You _live_ for them. It's not like you at all to take days to come in to inspect the body. I don't have to be a genius to know that something is bothering you."

A worry line formed between the detective's eyes and he pulled his arm away harshly. Then, slowly and emphatically, he spat, " _I've…been…busy. Do not_ make me repeat myself again."

His tone had been intended to frighten the pathologist. However, Molly observed Sherlock not with fear, but instead with care and concern. Then she asked in a gentle and careful tone. "Where's John?"

Sherlock didn't respond, now busying himself with the buttons on his coat. When he was done buttoning up, he lifted his head proudly and, with an air of purpose, he headed towards the door without a glance at the soft-haired woman. But before he could make his great escape, she asked in a determined voice, "This is about John, isn't it?"

At that, Sherlock rolled his eyes dramatically and his back seemed to stiffen slightly. "No."

Molly gave the detective a small smile that was full of understanding. "When Lestrade called me to tell me the body was being dropped off, he also told me that John wasn't with you. That he has a new girlfriend. Mary. You've solved so many cases together and grown so close, it must be hard to suddenly be alone."

Sherlock sniffed slightly but his face was expressionless. "Don't be absurd, I'm not alone, he's still my flatmate."

Molly watched the curly-haired man carefully. "I meant, being alone more than usual. Being alone on cases. That's what I meant and I'm…I'm sorry, Sherlock...I'm sorry about John."

"What is there to be sorry about?" the detective practically growled, his words coming out quick and fierce like a suddenly erupting volcano. "Alone is my protection. I understand that I only have myself to depend on. A lesson that you would do well to learn yourself, Miss Hooper. I see that you have yet again gone through a break up, the eighth this year if I remember." When Molly looked flabbergasted, Sherlock smirked and said coldly, "Your obvious weight gain, always a tell-tale sign. Not to mention those awful dark circles under your eyes, the lackadaisical manner in which you have put on your makeup, and the haphazard way that you have combed your hair – "

Molly blushed crimson and interrupted the detective with a sharp, "I broke up with him."

Sherlock's stare was scrutinizing and harsh, but Molly held his gaze without faltering. The silence in the room was deafening.

"Well, if you need to talk, please know that I'm always here," she finally said quietly.

"I have a skull that will do just fine if I ever need someone to talk to," Sherlock replied tersely before adding, "Oh, and that container will need to be disposed of properly. It's filled with radioactive material."

He waved his hand dramatically towards the table until Molly's glance fell on the container he was referring to. Elizabeth's container of chocolate powder. "Okay, fine," she nodded.

And with that, the detective was gone in a whirlwind of dark curls and expensive coattails.

Molly hurried to the doorframe and called after the quickly retreating form, "It's okay to need support, Sherlock. We all need people in our lives who can love us."

Without looking over his shoulder, the detective called back, "I don't need people to love me…" But what Molly couldn't hear were the whispered words that followed, "Only one person."

\-------------------------------

In a flat nearby, Mary Morstan was massaging and teasing the knots out of John Watson's shoulders, her hands soft with lotion.

A warm fire twirled and danced in the fireplace and two steaming hot cuppas sat nearby. In the background, the faint sounds of music filled the air. Flute music, gentle and soothing. Mary and John were nestled on the couch by the fireplace, a thick warm blanket curled around their legs and feet.

John had knocked on her door in a flabbergasted and shaken state earlier that day, covered in sweat, hair askew, jaw clenched, breath coming in spurts. But when Mary had pressed him to tell her what was wrong, he had refused to talk, instead making his way to the bathroom and muttering that he needed a shower. As he showered, Mary had prepared the living room with only one goal in mind: to calm her flustered boyfriend. She had set the kettle on the kitchen stove, turned on a relaxing CD, grabbed the warmest, softest blanket from her bed, found the gentlest lotion she kept on her bedside table, and lit a fire in the fireplace to take the chilly bite out of the flat.

Now, hours later, Mary's goal had been achieved. The scene had shifted from one of anxiety to one of pure and utter comfort.

John's eyes were shut tight with bliss and a soft, utterly satisfied purr was humming against his lips. "Ah…yes…that's lovely…just brilliant…thank you," he whispered as her fingers worked against his skin.

"Feeling better?" Mary asked, a pleased smile on her lips as she watched the content expression on John's face.

It was John's turn to smile, and it was filled with honesty. "Yes…so much better…thank you."

He pressed a soft kiss on Mary's tender cheek. But as he made to pull away, Mary's lotion-covered hands found the former army doctor's face and pulled him back towards her. Mary's lips crashed against his and, suddenly, he could feel the passion and the energy that radiated within her. Her fingers found his hair and, though she grabbed at his temple with excitement, always her touch was gentle. He felt safe, he felt so safe with her, attached to her, connected to her. She was his anchor, keeping him steady and afloat. He melted into her lips, an overwhelming sense of security washing over him.

When the kiss finally ended, Mary looked at the army doctor for a long time, her eyes twinkling in the firelight. Finally, she said breathlessly, "I love you, John."

At the words, John felt his heart leap into his throat. A mixture of giddiness and panic. How long had he been dating Mary? Not that long, certainly not long enough to warrant those very special, very important, very heavy words.

But as he stared into her blue, blue eyes and saw the respect and the care and the affection that lay within them, as he glanced at her beautiful mouth uplifted in an honest and trusting smile, the giddiness overtook the panic and before he knew what he was saying, these words had escaped from his throat:

"I love you too, Mary. I love you too."


	12. Chapter 12

Elizabeth was scrambling to lock the door to her flat when Sherlock Holmes came up behind her and uttered her name. The poor girl jumped in astonishment at the sound of his deep, abrupt voice, and her keys and bag fell from her fingers to crash against the concrete. Cursing under her breath, she bent down and grabbed at her items in a fluster.

"Mr. Holmes. I'm sorry, but now is not a good time. I have an audition and I am running late, so if you will please come back tomorrow –"

Sherlock interrupted her, his tone grave. "The container of chocolate powder that you used for Xavier's milk contained poison."

Elizabeth stopped in her tracks at that, eyes growing wide and scared. "What?" Her breath started coming in quick, anxious puffs. "How?"

Sherlock stepped closer, looking down at the dancer with scrutinizing eyes. "That's why I am here and why I cannot possibly wait until tomorrow."

Well, at that, Elizabeth fell backwards hard, the cotton of her pants catching harshly against the concrete, though she did not seem to notice. She wrapped her arms around her body protectively and practically wheezed in panic. "SO...SO...WAIT...YOU THINK IT WAS ME WHO KILLED HIM?!"

The detective's harsh gaze softened ever-so-slightly then. He reached out an arm to touch the girl's shoulder in what he assumed was a sign of comfort, but she recoiled from him in horror. Frowning, Sherlock withdrew his hand and said gently, "Elizabeth, I am here to speak with Ryan."

Though Elizabeth's eyes were already open wide, now they practically bulged out of her head. She stammered, finding it hard to form coherent words. "Wh…what..wh…why? Ryan…why…why…speak…need…to…sp…speak to…Ry…Ryan? Why?"

A flash of impatience passed across Sherlock's features as the girl grappled to speak properly, but his expression quickly transformed into a look (albeit strained) of sympathy. "Elizabeth, is Ryan home? I believe that's his car out front," and he pointed to a small black vehicle in the distance.

Elizabeth nodded, but her head was spinning as she tried to comprehend what was happening. She watched the detective stride towards the door and tap on it none-too-gently.

A tall, well-built man with sandy hair and shining green eyes answered. A look of confusion crossed the man's face as he eyed the detective up and down, and noticed Elizabeth crouched on the concrete in the background. But before Ryan could open his mouth to speak, Sherlock was talking rapidly and purposefully.

"You murdered Xavier Smithe."

Ryan's mouth dropped open in disbelief. "Xavier? What are you talking about? I haven't seen him in two years – "

"Because you killed him two years ago," the detective interrupted with a growl. "You knew Elizabeth was helplessly in love with him, but you had feelings for her. You felt that you would never have a chance with her if the professor was around so you needed to get rid of him."

Ryan stammered. The stammer turned into a strangled laugh. "Do you hear yourself? Who the hell are you? Elizabeth and I started dating while she was still living with Xavier so obviously even if she did once have feelings for him, things changed. I had no reason to kill him!" Then he said in a tone of strained friendliness, "Hey, you know, no hard feelings though. You look a lot like him. He was a smart guy."

The detective grimaced. "You started poisoning him long before you began to date Elizabeth. But you were still uneasy even after you and Elizabeth forged a relationship. You worried that perhaps she was only dating you out of a sense of helplessness, because she felt that her feelings for Xavier were destined to always be unrequited. So you continued to poison his chocolate powder even when Elizabeth became your girlfriend."

Now Ryan was glaring.

The detective smirked then, spitting out his next words in rapid succession. "At first, you tried to poison Xavier with radium powder. That's why you went to the lab with him every Monday, so you could obtain the powder. You would then mix it into the container of chocolate that Xavier used with his milk. The chocolate powder that Elizabeth would take such care to prepare Xavier's drink with. It's twisted really, it's deranged and wicked, but you took pride in the fact that the woman who loved him was essentially killing him slowly, didn't you?"

Elizabeth choked behind the detective, her hands flying to her mouth as she gurgled, "Oh God, oh God, is that why he was having jaw pain? He never was one to complain, but he said he was having jaw pain! Oh shit!"

Ryan rolled his eyes as the detective continued, "Further, by acting slowly, the radium powder would give the illusion that Xavier was growing ill. Nobody would expect that his illness was actually murder. But the poison wasn't working quick enough, was it? Xavier was found stuffed in a freezer with a bullet in his neck. You stole a gun from the shooting range and shot him. The bullet lodged in his neck matches a bullet commonly used at the range you frequent with Elizabeth."

Ryan's glare intensified. "Check the entire flat. I guarantee you will not find a gun anywhere."

Sherlock was practically beaming now. "Even an idiot like you would know enough to get rid of the gun after the murder was committed."

The sandy-haired man's voice turned icy in tone. "Well, even an idiot would know that there is more than one type of gun and more than one type of bullet at a shooting range. You have absolutely no proof that - "

"Luckily, I am _not_ an idiot," Sherlock interrupted disdainfully. "I visited the shooting range. I instigated an argument between two young men and, while staff was busy trying to break up the fight, I checked their records to see what your gun of choice is. The bullet used by your gun of choice matches the bullet found in Xavier's neck. So, you stole the gun, committed the deed, and then you brought the gun back to the shooting range. But before you did so, you dumped Xavier's body in a place where no one would look, and for extra precaution you ensured the place had a freezer to dispose of the body so that if he ever were to be discovered, it would be more difficult to date time of death. Of course, being an idiot, you buried him with his briefcase and didn't bother to remove the papers from it. Since these papers contained dates on them, it was incredibly simple to figure out his time of death. Or perhaps you didn't bother to remove the papers because you were not particularly worried that he would be missed. He wasn't well-liked by his colleagues, he didn't have any friends, and he was relocating overseas anyway, all very good reasons for why you didn't fear the discovery of his body."

Ryan gulped uncomfortably, laughed hesitantly, and said, "You're crazy, man. Xavier left for a new job. That's why he disappeared."

Sherlock eyes continued to survey Ryan's face. "The question is why did you have to kill him so abruptly? Why was the radium powder not working fast enough for your liking?"

"Hey, sod off, you...you...you _freak_ ," Ryan cried out, and for a second Sherlock's confident gaze faltered. Ryan took that second to lash out at the detective, but Sherlock was quicker and skillfully flipped the sandy-haired man onto the floor.

By now, Elizabeth was in the doorway, trembling, shaky, and adamant. She pushed her way past the detective and glowered over Ryan's form before spluttering, "Ryan, what is the meaning of this? What the hell is going on?"

Ryan stood up with a groan, brushing himself off in a crazed manner. "Elizabeth, this man is a nutcase. Don't listen to him."

Elizabeth opened her mouth to speak but a screeching sound caught her attention. Sherlock was in the living room now, moving the queen-sized bed away from the wall; the bed legs were gliding none too gently against the floor. As he pulled, he declared, "This is where the murder occurred."

Ryan was approaching at a dead sprint. "You have no proof of that!"

The detective pointed to the dips in the floor where the wood was slightly lighter. "The dents in the floor indicate that the bed was moved from its usual resting spot and never properly returned to that spot."

"So? We clean the floor sometimes, and we have to move furniture to do that," Ryan argued, shoving at the bed and trying to push it back. But Elizabeth grabbed the sandy-haired man harshly, pulling him backwards into the middle of the room. "We never move the bed to clean! Please, Ryan, I need to know the truth," she cried out in desperation.

Once the bed was a distance away from the wall, the dust against the wall indicated that Elizabeth was right, the bed was rarely ever moved. With a triumphant look, Sherlock reached into his pocket and retrieved something from its depths. It was a light that he promptly shone against the now-exposed paint. Both Elizabeth and Ryan turned, holding their breath as words lit up blue against the dull paint. The writing had been made hastily but was certainly legible. It read:

Elizabeth, I love you

Sherlock's eyes darted across the words, and he paled as realization hit. An uncomfortable sensation that he had never experienced before took hold of his stomach, making it flutter into his throat and, from there, into his head. It took him longer than usual to recollect his thoughts but, after a moment, he spoke.

"That's it, then," he said, looking at Ryan. "That's why the poison wasn't working fast enough for your taste. Because Xavier realized that he had feelings for your beloved Elizabeth. He was going to tell her that he loved her. Perhaps he even decided he wasn't going to leave London for his new position overseas. And you couldn't bear the thought that, when Xavier expressed his love to Elizabeth, you might lose her. So you came over when Elizabeth was out and you shot him in the neck. But Xavier didn't go down without a fight." Sherlock's eyes were darting from the wall to the bed to the floor as the fight replayed in his mind. "A fight which led to the bed being harshly pushed away from the wall and left Xavier sprawled on the floor, vulnerable and easy to shoot. And even though he knew he was dying, he still wanted Elizabeth to hear his message so he wrote it on the wall in his blood. He knew you wouldn't be able to completely erase the crime committed here. He knew that there was a chance someone would notice his message and tell Elizabeth."

A thunk of flesh on flesh followed Sherlock's words. It was the sound of Elizabeth punching Ryan in the face with all the strength that she could muster. She was yelling, wailing, tearing at his sandy hair, biting the air, face red with emotion. "HOW COULD YOU DO THAT TO HIM? HOW COULD YOU, YOU MONSTER? I LOVED HIM!" Her knees seemed to give way underneath her and she crumpled onto the floor in a messy heap of sobs and curses.

Ryan leaned over Elizabeth with a disgustingly pleading expression on his face. "Elizabeth…please…don't you see, I did it to help you because I love you! He was a cruel, cold, uncaring man and it was a waste of time loving him. Don't you see? I was helping you get on with your life," Ryan moaned.

Elizabeth kicked the sandy-haired man hard in the shins and he cowered in pain. At that, there was a rustle as long, pale fingers reached into dark tweed coat pocket. Arms grabbed arms and the clink of metal against wrists indicated that Ryan had been handcuffed by the consulting detective. Next, Sherlock retrieved his cell phone and long digits quickly dialled numbers. A moment of stillness, then a deep baritone voice declared into the phone, "Lestrade. I have our murderer."

Elizabeth still sat trembling on the floor when Lestrade packed Ryan into the back of the police car minutes later. When Lestrade returned to the living room to discuss paperwork with the consulting detective, the D.I. was quite shocked to see the curly-haired man leaning over the crying woman with a sincere look of concern on his face. Carefully, quietly, the D.I. exited the flat and returned to the car, deciding that the paperwork could wait until tomorrow.

The young dancer turned her tear-stained face to the detective and gave him a forlorn smile before gently taking his pale hand in hers and whispering, "Thank you for figuring out what happened to Xavier, for showing that someone still cared about him even when it seemed like the world had forgotten."

Sherlock's lips formed a half-grimace, half-smile as he nodded slowly, eyes distant.

With a sigh, Elizabeth rose on shaky legs and said sadly, "I wish I had known how Xavier felt. I wish he had had the courage to face his feelings sooner. That way, maybe he wouldn't have fallen from my memory for as long as he did."

A heavy lump formed in the consulting detective's throat as he listened to the woman's words, but he tried to push it away, tried to find the rush of adrenaline that normally accompanied solving a case. However, no adrenaline came, just a sense of emptiness that had a bad aftertaste to it.

\----------------------------

When Sherlock returned to 221B Baker Street, the flat was empty. His heart pumped heavy and fast in his chest. There were goosebumps up and down his arms and along his neck. He spent the rest of the afternoon pacing back and forth in front of the mantelpiece, muttering words to the skull. Words that he had never said before. Words that he had once adamantly, fervently, confidently believed he would never ever say in his lifetime. Words that tasted foreign on his tongue, words that he scoffed at, yet words that somehow he knew _had_ to be uttered.

That evening, he sat on the couch, watching the door and waiting for one former army doctor to come home. His legs shook impatiently as he rehearsed the words he would say. He repeated them over and over again in his head.

But that night, the former army doctor never returned home and the consulting detective fell into an uneasy slumber sprawled out on the couch with no one to hear his moans. Images spiralled and ricocheted through the detective's distressed sleep. The image of a lifeless body, slender and tall, dressed in expensive tailored suit and long Belstaff coat, fallen in an empty room. The image of a clock ticking out of control as time pressed forward and the body remained alone, nobody coming to check, nobody caring what happened. The image of a smiling light-haired man, not too tall, dressed in a jumper, a cuppa in one hand, his other hand resting on the knee of a blue-eyed, blonde-haired woman. The image of paths that had once been united but which had diverged. And always always always the image of the lifeless body alone alone alone.


	13. Chapter 13

**Note: There is physical violence in this chapter.**

John returned to 221B Baker Street at lunchtime the next day. When he came through the door, he found his curly-haired flatmate sitting rigidly on the couch watching the news.

"Hi Sherlock. Sorry I wasn't around last night. I stayed at Mary's."

Sherlock barely acknowledged that the doctor was there and, for a second, John feared that his flatmate was still in the strange mood he had left him in yesterday. But then the detective raised his eyebrows ever so slightly, and John suppressed a sigh of relief.

"I got us some take out. I'm assuming you haven't eaten." The doctor waved a very full, very delicious-smelling bag in front of the telly before he retreated into the kitchen.

He began clanking and banging plates and utensils as he spooned out their lunch. A few minutes later, he returned to the living room with two bowls of steamy noodles in hand. He set one bowl down in front of Sherlock before sitting next to the curly-haired man.

"I'll make us tea in a minute. Just want to eat something first. I'm famished," John explained before digging into his bowl eagerly.

Sherlock had begun to munch hesitantly at his food, but he paused at John's words and said in a bitterer voice than he intended, "What? Did Mary not feed you? Isn't that what girlfriends are supposed to do, feed their significant others?"

John looked up at the detective's resentful tone. He eyed the curly-haired man warily, recalling the uncomfortable encounter from the other morning. Finally, he dared to ask, "Is everything okay?"

"Of course. Why wouldn't it be?" Sherlock stated curtly, trying to sound calm and neutral.

John watched the detective for a moment more before returning to his lunch. "Mary had to work this morning and I slept in so I didn't have breakfast with her. Not a big deal," he said, shrugging. "You solve the case?"

"Yes."

The doctor's eyes lit up excitedly. "Well, let's hear all about it."

Sherlock put his bowl down harshly on the table and turned suddenly to face his flatmate. "Actually, John, I was hoping we could talk about something else first."

Well, that statement surprised John Watson to no end. Why in the world would Sherlock Holmes want to talk about something _other than_ a case?! This must be serious. Perhaps everything wasn't okay after all. Did this have anything to do with the detective's weird behavior yesterday?

The doctor placed his bowl down too and gave his friend his full attention. "Of course."

Sherlock cleared his throat, words forming on his plump lips. But when he looked into the doctor's eyes, he froze; for behind the gentle, calm, dependable, confident, concerned blue shine was something else that Sherlock had never seen before, a sparkling, twinkling, glistening, distant, special something. Sherlock's deduction was made in a matter of seconds and, in that amount of time, the words that he had rehearsed over and over the night before shattered into pieces to be replaced with:

"I wanted to talk about tea. Specifically, I have observed that you almost always make the tea, so I was thinking that I could make it today."

John's mouth dropped open in shock and he narrowed his eyes in disbelief. The last time the detective had made tea, he had done so as a sign of apology; yet John didn't think that Sherlock had anything to apologize for this time...true, the curly-haired man had acted stranger than usual yesterday, but that didn't really warrant an apology. "What is this about? What have you done this time? Is there a human head in the microwave?"

And, in that moment, all Sherlock wanted to do was grab the former army doctor in an embrace. The impulse filled him with frustration, disgust, and utter helplessness. What was happening to him? Where was his sense of control? But though there was a battle waging within him, he maintained an emotionless exterior; he raised his eyebrows and said nonchalantly, "Don't be ridiculous, John. You know perfectly well I keep any body parts in the fridge. Can't a friend make a friend some tea simply because he or she wants to?"

The doctor's chuckle turned into a genuine smile. "Of course. Of course. That would be lovely."

Sherlock rose from the couch and forced a smile in return. "Perfect. Tea first and then I will tell you about the case."

As soon as the detective was safely hidden in the kitchen, he slammed his fists in frustration against the counter top, his entire form deflating as if he had been punched in the gut. The sound echoed through the flat and sent shocks of pain radiating up his arms.

"What was that noise?" John called from the living room.

The detective took a shaky breath, running his fingers through his hair and shutting his eyes tight before calling back, "Nothing John, just dropped something."

\---------------------

The next morning, John awoke to the sound of violin music coming from the living room. The sound was haunting in its beauty and its heaviness. The doctor lay in bed for a few moments simply listening to the music, finding that it unsettled and perturbed him. He couldn't quite explain why the music was so perplexing, but there was a sense of hollowness stirring in its depths. Suddenly his cell phone rang out, interrupting his thoughts. He groaned and stretched his weary joints as he turned to grab at the phone on the floor. It was a text from Mary:

**Missed you last night. How about dinner?**

The doctor beamed and rubbed the sleep from his eyes before replying:

**I would like that very much.**

It was only a matter of seconds until another text from Mary came through:

**Great! Come by my flat at 6. Does that sound good? Why don't you invite Sherlock? I would love to finally meet him.**

Now, that idea made John more than a little bit uneasy. Sherlock hated social gatherings more than almost anything in the world; the detective despised the idle and forced small talk that so often accompanied them, and most certainly hated having to try to be polite in the face of such idiotic rambling. It wouldn't be easy to convince the detective to attend dinner – and, even if Sherlock was successfully persuaded to go, the next worry would be that he would say or do something utterly infuriating. But John was also beginning to realize that both Sherlock and Mary were going to be big parts of his life and, if such was the case, it was necessary for them to meet one another. So, with a sigh of resignation, he wrote a quick:

**Will ask Sherlock. See you at 6.**

Then, he pulled the blankets back and jumped out into the chilly bedroom air.

A few minutes later found John in the kitchen bundled in a jumper and fleecy trousers, toasting some bread as Sherlock continued to play the haunting violin melody, eyes closed, a perplexingly neutral expression on his chiseled face. The detective hadn't seemed to take notice when John first came downstairs, but when the doctor returned to the living room with two plates of bread, the detective looked up from his instrument.

"I want you to meet Mary."

Sherlock had never been fond of any of John's girlfriends and had never wanted to meet any of them, but Mary – well, he was adamant that he would not have anything whatsoever to do with her. She was special…and it made the poor detective simply bristle with consternation. Thus, at John's words, he practically threw the violin onto the floor but managed to assert enough self-control to aim for the couch instead. "No."

John sighed in exasperation. "Oh, come on, Sherlock. Why not?"

The detective turned to the window to try to conceal the tremble that had taken hold of his bottom lip. "I don't want to."

"That's not a legitimate reason and you know it."

"I don't like people," Sherlock responded stubbornly, throwing John a slight glare over his shoulder before turning his head back to the window.

"No. Wrong. You don't like _most_ people, but I know for a fact that you like me. So do this for me, because I want you to. Please."

Sherlock's nostrils flared at the statement and he tried his best to stifle the hiccup that was suddenly threatening to escape from his throat. Why had his heart started throbbing as soon as John had uttered those words? And, damn it all to hell, had his cheeks honestly just started burning ever so faintly? How annoying! How dreadfully annoying. How disgustingly sentimental. John had clearly only meant that Sherlock liked him as a friend, nothing more. There was no reason for the throbbing and cheek blushing. The detective clenched his jaw.

"Mary and I are going out for dinner tonight at 6, and you are invited. You can choose where we eat," John offered next, sounding slightly desperate now. "Please Sherlock. Mary wants to meet you and I want you to meet her."

"I'm not hungry," came the terse reply.

"I know you don't like social gatherings, I know that, but come on Sherlock, you're my best friend."

Well, the detective knew he should be flattered that John had called him "best friend" but instead he only felt exasperatingly numb. "So?"

"So…are we really doing this right now?" John asked impatiently.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows at the window but remained silent.

Finally the good doctor huffed and said, "Look, you're both important to me so I want you to meet one another." There was a deep and raw sincerity in the words that caused Sherlock to turn his head. And when he saw the perplexity in John's eyes, his heart clenched painfully, a sensation that was both alien to him and incredibly unpleasant. He needed that awful feeling to go away and so, through gritted teeth, he said, "Fine."

\---------------------------

6:30 P.M. saw a jumper-clad John, a jewelry-adorned Mary, and a purple-shirted Sherlock seated in Angelo's without the customary wine and candle that doctor and detective were used to; for, as soon as Angelo had approached the table with the two items in hand and noticed the blonde woman sitting next to John, he had given a jump of surprise and made a u-turn for the kitchen to dispose of the items. Sherlock had pretended not to notice Angelo's reaction and had proceeded to keep his mind occupied by deducing the people at nearby tables. But then a syrup sweet voice interrupted him.

"John has told me so much about you, it's wonderful to finally meet you," Mary said, smiling sincerely and reaching forward to take the detective's hand in a friendly gesture.

Sherlock violently retracted his fingers as if he had been burnt. "I had no desire to meet you," he said dismissively, refusing to make eye contact. A sharp pain on his right shin indicated that John had kicked him under the table and he didn't have to look at his flatmate to feel the anger radiating from the soldier's body. He knew John was staring menacingly at his head. On the cab ride to Mary's, John had practically begged the detective to use his superb acting abilities to appear at least semi-amiable.

Thus, with a grunt, the detective finally forced himself to look at Mary and said through a strained smile, "But John is very fond of you so you must be a lovely person."

He could feel John's muscles relax at the words, and Mary laughed light-heartedly.

"So tell me what it's like to be a detective," she said curiously, leaning forward ever so slightly.

"I'm not a detective, I am a _consulting_ detective, the only one in the world," Sherlock replied, eyes once again darting around the room. If only she would stop talking and just leave him alone, then perhaps the whole event could go by quickly.

Mary was persistent though. "John said you created the job?" When Sherlock did not reply, Mary continued. "I created my job too. Well, sort of. I work at home. It's very nice when you can do something you love as a career, isn't it?"

The detective eyed Mary's hair with a frown before saying, "I would hardly consider running a hair salon in your flat as creative and it is certainly not a career. It's child's play really. Juvenile. It doesn't require a lot of intelligence and it is a rather tedious job to have."

But instead of being insulted, Mary looked both surprised and delighted. "You really can deduce people's lives just by looking at them. John wasn't lying. How ever did you figure out that I am a hair dresser?"

"Don't answer that," John declared, fixing Sherlock with a death glare.

Luckily, at that moment, Angelo arrived to take their orders. John and Mary both decided on chicken and mushroom pasta. Sherlock asked for a small soup, and noticed with great irritation the shared look of concern that passed between John and Mary at his minimal order. But as soon as Angelo retrieved their menus, Mary's eyes were once again on the detective.

"How did you and John meet?"

"Did he not tell you?" Sherlock asked, and there was a sharp edge to his words. Even Mary caught the hurt tone and she stammered slightly before saying, "No, of course he told me. I just wanted to hear it again from you."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I'm sure John could tell it as well as I, probably better, so there is really no reason for me to repeat our first encounter."

Mary deflated slightly and John once again tensed up, blubbering about how busy the restaurant was tonight, suggesting that perhaps they should order some wine, and trying desperately to break the discomfort that had filled the table. The poor doctor breathed a sigh of relief when Angelo brought a basket of bread over. Quickly, he broke pieces off and handed them to Sherlock and Mary in the hopes that eating would dispel some of the tension. It didn't.

"Thank you for coming to dinner with us, Sherlock," Mary finally said after an uncomfortably long silence in which she and John ate two pieces of bread and Sherlock ate nothing. "I know it must be difficult having to share John's time with me. It's difficult for John too. He cares so much about you."

Well, at that, Sherlock's eyes turned to ice and he could feel the blood in his veins practically start to boil. He gripped the table and tried very hard to keep his mouth shut - for John, so that John would be happy. But words began to spill from his mouth.

"I shouldn't have to share my time with John. You're not good enough for him and I cannot fathom what in this world he sees in you."

By the end of his statement, he was half spitting, half yelling. He could vaguely hear the former army doctor in the background, pleading with him to shut up. He could feel the stares of everyone in the restaurant, all drawn to the commotion he was making. But he couldn't stop himself. His mind was spinning out of control. The words were pouring out of him like an overflowing tap now.

"You're dull. You enjoy simplicity and comfort while John values risk and danger. You will never be able to offer him that. I noticed a mark on your wedding ring finger. You were engaged once before but you had cold-feet right before the wedding and you broke it off. So fear of commitment too then. Have you shared that little bit of information with John yet?"

"What the hell is the matter with you?" John moaned through gritted teeth, his entire body radiating with anger.

Sherlock turned cold eyes on John. "No John, the better question is what is wrong with you? You can do so much better than her. Really, she is even more dull than that perfectly boring teacher you used to date."

"You machine!" John declared.

"I AM NOT A MACHINE!" Sherlock bellowed, practically throwing himself across the table at the doctor in his fury. "I AM ALMOST ALWAYS CORRECT AND YOU KNOW THAT BETTER THAN ANYONE, SO BELIEVE ME WHEN I SAY THAT SHE IS NOT WORTH YOUR TIME AND THAT I KNOW SOMEONE WHO IS!"

John's hands were in fists now. "YEAH?! AND WHO WOULD THAT BE?!"

The entire restaurant fell into a stunned and anxious silence at this outburst.

From his periphery, Sherlock could see John rise from the table. But he was too angry to shut his mouth. He couldn't think properly; all of the data stored in the caverns of his head was crashing and tumbling in on itself in chaos. He could hear John's angry footsteps coming closer to him and vaguely comprehend that Mary was pleading with the doctor. But still the beast within him was unfurling. He could see John raise his fist. But still he continued coldly calculating Mary's life until he didn't even know what he was saying anymore. He could see the rage in John's eyes but that only served to propel his own anger. Then he heard the sickening sound of knuckles on bone and everything went black and silent for an instant.

Next, he sensed a heavy throbbing pain at his temple, his ears ringing, his vision blurry, his chair tipping, the side of his head smacking against tile. He was on the floor and there were horrified murmurs filling the restaurant, the trickle and smell of blood oozing from his forehead, and John's hand still lowering from the punch that had just been delivered to his face. Suddenly the real hurt came, the kind of pain that went beyond the realm of the physical; it was a hurt that went deep into the recesses of the detective's bones, that travelled down every cranny and corridor of his mind palace.

Now John was on his knees reaching out to the detective, the anger on his face transformed into shock and regret as he started whispering, "Oh God, Sherlock, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, oh God, oh God." The doctor was trying to reach for the detective's hand to help him stand up. Mary was crouching over Sherlock too, her eyebrows knitted in worry and her hands clenched in little balls at her chest as she muttered in an upset tone to John.

And now Sherlock was recoiling from John's reach and from Mary's stare, his pale hands moving to his wounded face, his eyes burning with water and shame, his entire body shaking. Everyone was staring. Everyone had seen. John had only punched the detective once before, and that had been at the detective's command. It had been necessary to help them with a case. That punch had been powerful but careful, painful but with no malice – so unlike this one, which had been filled with what felt like complete contempt and disgust. Sherlock's fingers caught the blood as it plummeted down his cheekbone. And then, head down and refusing to look his flatmate in the eye, the detective stood up and ran out the door into the street.


	14. Chapter 14

After a long day of work, Molly Hooper was feeling anything but well. Her nose tickled, her throat hurt, and all she wanted to do was go home, crawl into bed, and pull her quilt high up over her head. But half way to her flat she realized she had forgotten her purse (and, therefore, her keys) in the morgue, and so she had no choice but to rush back to St. Bart's.

The morgue was pitch black as she entered and her hand moved briskly against the wall, finding the light switch. When the room was immersed in brightness, Molly gave a jump and a startled shriek. Sitting on a stool in the corner of the room, eerily still and with eyes focused on the floor, was Sherlock Holmes. At Molly's cry, his ice blue gaze moved up sharply, and Molly's chest constricted when she saw dried blood down one side of the man's face. Suddenly the exhaustion that had been overwhelming the pathologist was but a distant memory. She was quick to rush to the cupboards, where she retrieved a carton of wipes. She then moved to the freezer and grabbed up a small ice pack. In a matter of seconds, she was sitting in front of the detective, gently wiping the blood away from his pale forehead and cheek while he watched her in silence, a stoic expression on his face. After the blood was cleaned, she pressed the ice pack gingerly against the side of his face and asked, "What happened?"

Sherlock did not speak for a very long time, choosing to examine a fly on the wall instead, his focus so intense that it was as if he was dissecting the pathetic bug alive. Finally, his deep voice broke the silence. "The case…the victim…Xavier…that was his name…" This voice was very different from the confident, biting one so often used by the man; now it was as if there were lead weights in his mouth.

Molly looked at him with gentle concern, waiting for him to continue. He took a breath and shut his eyes tight in frustration at having to convey his feelings…in frustration at even _having_ these feelings. Then he spoke again. "Xavier went missing and nobody seemed to care…even…even the woman he loved…" Another long pause as Sherlock's lips pursed in agitation at his display of vulnerable humanity, "…even the woman he loved…Elizabeth…she once loved him but...she...she had moved on…and he…he…was…forgotten…he was forgotten."

Sherlock closed his mouth tightly and once again resumed his study of the fly on the wall. Molly took the opportunity to move the ice pack away so she could survey the injuries on his face. His sharp cheekbone and the side of his forehead were both bruised a light purple-blue. "Oh Sherlock," Molly breathed sadly, "Is the ice helping the pain at all?"

Sherlock continued to watch the fly but gave a curt nod in response to the question. "Okay," Molly said, "Let's keep icing then," and with a sympathetic sigh, the pathologist pressed the cold pack against the detective's face once more. A few moments later came the strangled words:

"Xavier…he looked…he looked like me…he thought like me…he…he was dislikable in almost every way..."

"He wasn't you, Sherlock," the soft-haired woman interrupted, her voice firm and adamant. When the detective looked at her with curiosity, she continued, "People won't forget you. People care about you. People appreciate what you do for them. For London. _Many_ people love you – "

"Not him!" This time, the curly-haired man's voice came out strong and adamant. There was a fierce bite to those words.

Molly lifted her eyebrows at the outburst, trying not to grin triumphantly at finally hearing the detective's honest feelings. "Him? Not him?" She asked it calmly, quietly, soothingly, encouraging the man to elaborate. But the detective pressed his lips together in a scowl, determined not to say anymore, his cheeks blushing a subtle crimson.

The pathologist waited another minute before pressing the young man to speak again. Pointing to the ice pack on his face, she asked in a tender voice, "Who did this to you? How did this happen?"

Well, the next instant, poor Molly regretted very much that she had asked the question. At first, Sherlock merely pouted as if to undermine and avoid responding. But soon the pout turned into a quiver, the quiver turned into a tremble, the chiselled features of his face were melting into messy crinkles, his nose was scrunching, and then he was bowing his head, a low, long, agonizing sob was erupting from his throat, and tears were tumbling and spilling from his eyes as his shoulders and chest shook violently. Molly gasped in astonishment, practically throwing the ice pack against the wall in her worry and awkwardly but affectionately pulling the lanky man into a hug. Her heart ached for her confused, overwhelmed friend, but a sense of relief also washed over her at his complete and genuine release of pent-up tension and emotion. She always knew that Sherlock Holmes was a caring man, but here was the indisputable proof that he had a very real, very true heart. He sobbed into her chest for a long time, and she rubbed his slender back with soothing strokes as she whispered, "Let it out, Sherlock, let it all out and you will feel better. I'm with you. You're not alone. You're safe. Don't be scared."

When his breathing finally settled, the detective lifted his head and turned away, embarrassed by the lack of control he had had over his tears and now trying desperately to force a look of neutrality onto his tear-stained face. Molly noticed his discomfort and placed her attention promptly on some papers at a nearby table; she pretended to read them with interest. But when Sherlock stood as if to leave, she cried out with urgency: "Sherlock, wait!" He paused, though he refused to look at her. Nevertheless, she continued, "I know that I said you could always talk to me, and you can, you _absolutely_ can. I am very glad that you came here tonight. But right now, I am not the person you need to talk to. You need to talk to _him_. You need to tell _him_ how you feel."

Sherlock's shoulders tensed and he took a strangled breath as if fighting the urge to speak. "I…I…can't."

Molly came up slowly behind him, but was sure to give him some distance so he could try to collect himself...so he wouldn't feel trapped. Carefully, she asked, "Why? Because he is John? And John is with Mary?"

The detective seemed to tense up further at the words, his skin glowing an even paler shade than it normally was. Yet, before he could speak, his cell phone erupted with noise and a text message lit up the screen. Both pathologist and detective turned their attention to the device which was sitting on a nearby table and, with swift but shaky fingers, the detective reached for it. Molly took a few more steps toward him so that she could glance at the phone. The text message read:

**Sherlock, it's John. Where are you? Please come home. We need to talk.**

Home. John was still referring to 221B as their home, even after the events at Angelo's. _Their_ home. John and Sherlock's home together. Where John had his jumpers and his kettle and his favourite old chair and Sherlock used John's computer and drank John's tea. The detective's heart tumbled within the caverns of his chest, and he was filled with utter unease as he realized that the tumbling sensation was nostalgia and sentiment. He looked at Molly with something akin to fear sparkling behind the brilliant blue-gold of his eyes. The pathologist gave the detective a reassuring look and did not hesitate to say, "He's right, Sherlock. You should go now. You should go talk to him."

For many minutes, Sherlock was perfectly still, his body relaxing into a numb state and his eyes growing distant as he retreated deep into his mind. Then, without warning, he was an erupting firecracker again, all tension and aggravation, moving swiftly and purposefully, taking long and surefire strides towards the door. But as the detective was about to exit the room, he stopped abruptly and turned around to give Molly a small smile. "That new nurse. The one from Scotland. The one that you think is attractive. And don't look surprised, it's perfectly obvious that you are attracted to him. I overheard him on my way here. He was confessing to his colleague that he has feelings for you. Not to mention the various other blatant indicators that, upon quick inspection, further revealed this to be the case. He is rather more intelligent than the other staff at this hospital. As are you. A logical choice for a boyfriend then. So, if I'm not mistaken, it would appear that you have someone you need to talk to as well."

At these words, the sweet Molly Hooper was suddenly radiating sunshine, all dimples and giggles and hair twirls. With a particularly eager skip, she followed the great Sherlock Holmes out into the hallway. "Yes," she stammered excitedly, "yes, I think you're quite right. It does indeed sound like I have someone I need to talk to as well." And then, she added with a twinkle in her eye, "Oh, and Sherlock, if you ask me, and don't look surprised by this, but if you ask me, it was always perfectly obvious that you were attracted to John and, well, I know I'm not a consulting detective or anything but, if I do say so myself, I believe that it has always been perfectly obvious that he has feelings for you too."


	15. Chapter 15

"Out, damned spot! out, I say!"

A _Macbeth_ BBC television special filled the darkened room with strange moans and eery flickers of light that tinted the furniture a gloomy shade of grey. But John Watson barely noticed the grainy image of a distraught Lady Macbeth singing and dancing back and forth across the screen in a battle of agony and guilt. He did not notice because he was raging his own inner battle as he waited for a certain consulting detective to arrive. With a groan, the poor doctor took a large swig from an almost-empty bottle of beer he held in one of his hands.

He had punched his best friend. He – steady, calm, collected, reasonable John Watson – had punched his best friend. Hard. Harder than hard. With a strength that he had never used before, not even in the face of battle and almost-certain death.

With a shuddering breath, John finished off the beer, let the bottle fall forlornly to the floor with a thunk, and lay his head miserably in his hands. What was the matter with him? What monster had taken hold of his body in that moment when hand had turned to fist, when fist had propelled forward to meet skin and bone? Where was his sense of control?

True, Sherlock had said some truly horrid and hurtful things to Mary. But that was just Sherlock being Sherlock; the Sherlock that John always wanted to call his best friend. Sherlock had never really understood that John had a life outside of 221B Baker Street; Sherlock had never really fathomed why John would want to go on dates when he could be helping to solve cases instead. And this lack of comprehension always made Sherlock hostile towards any girl John ever fancied. Therefore, John should have known better than to put Sherlock and Mary in the same room together so soon into the relationship. At the very least, he should have warned Mary a little more – yes, they often talked about his enigmatic flatmate, and he had spent many eager days filling her in on the various cases Sherlock and he had solved together. But still he should have given her more warning about the detective's often uncensored tongue. Maybe if she had been more prepared for the encounter, John would not have felt so anxious and, thereby, would not have lost his temper so easily. Maybe, maybe, maybe, maybe.

But it was too late now – he had punched his flatmate, and he had seen the resultant shock and the…the…oh bloody hell…the raw hurt in the poor man's beautiful blue-gold eyes. That look of hurt had, in turn, wounded poor John. Injured him in a very deep, very indescribable, very confusing way. It was a pain that went beyond the realm of betrayal between friends, and John could not understand it, he could not understand it all. With a grunt of exasperation, he kicked the empty beer bottle at his feet and watched as it twirled dejectedly on the floor. He was going to kick at it again when…

…the front door opened, someone climbed the stairs, another door opened, and the room spilled with light as a switch was turned. In a gesture of nervousness, John reached for the television remote and pounded the volume up so that Lady Macbeth's perplexed cries sent the flat into oblivion. The doctor stared with a newfound interest at the woman on the television screen and did not detract his attention until he heard footsteps directly behind him. Only then did he dare to look up into the pale but distinctly bruised face of the world's only consulting detective.

And if the sight of the bruising was not enough to make the poor doctor's chest constrict in on itself, he was almost certain that he saw a faint red puffing outlining Sherlock's eyes as if the curly-haired man had recently been crying. That seemed impossible though, the detective was never so overcome with emotions that he would succumb to something as petty as tears. Surely the red puffing was a result of something else, perhaps the cold weather. Yes, that must be it.

But another pressure soon plagued John's chest as he noticed that there was a deeply unsettled expression playing across the detective's immaculate features. Features that were so different from Mary's. Hers were soft and safe and predictable, Sherlock's were sharp and daring and exciting. John found himself staring wide-eyed at the taller man in long coat, but the good doctor quickly gave his head a shake; the beer must have gotten to his brain and hindered his thinking skills.

Sherlock was silent as he stripped his slender body of the Belstaff coat and draped it elegantly across the couch arm. He was silent, yes, and there was a nervous energy surrounding him, true, but he was a presence all the same. He was crossing in front of the chair and coming closer to John now…he had those dazzling blue-green eyes focused intently, seriously, determinedly on the poor doctor. John's chest squeezed even tighter and even more powerfully than before. There was something behind the detective's gaze and John could not quite place what exactly it was; it was close to the look that came when the detective first analyzed a crime scene, his sharp stare catching every last detail no matter how fine or minute…and yet there was more to this stare, a something that looked almost akin to fear, that resembled a hunger long unacknowledged and unanswered, that reflected a deep aching hurt. Suddenly, a vivid image of fist against face flashed through the former army doctor's mind and,

"Sherlock," he said firmly, standing now. "I am so sorry."

"Shut up, John," the detective bit back in his most irritated voice, gritting his teeth, taking a deep breath, and looking more determined than John had ever seen him look before. A man on a mission. "I suppose I should express regret as well. I may have acted out of line tonight. But please do shut up and let me convey my…emotions…before I come to my senses."

"What are you talking about?"

By now, they were standing face to face, the tall man staring down at the shorter man. "The pool, John."

John's eyebrows furrowed in growing confusion. What pool? What did a pool have to do with the events that had unfolded at Angelo's? Why was Sherlock going on about a bloody pool? Had the knock to his head done more than just physical damage? That was a downright awful, improbable, impossible thought! The doctor opened his mouth then as if to speak…but no words came…not one.

He had meant to say something, honest he had. And he would have said something, honest he would have, if the the detective's cupid bow lips hadn't met his weathered ones and pulled the words right out of his mouth with the force of a warm, shocking, unexpected, absolutely, thrillingly, exhilarating, infuriatingly _dangerous_ hurricane. But bow lips did indeed meet weathered ones and suddenly everything was hot, so hot, so bloody _bloody_ hot and the room was spinning, shrinking, choirs of angels were singing, the room was melting, John was melting, the room was liquid, John was liquid, the room was a puddle of blue, gold, silver, and green and Doctor John Watson could have sworn that he had died and entered the palace of Heaven.

\---------------------------

**Citation:**

**"Out, damned spot! out, I say!" (5.1.33)**

**The passage above is from the Arden Shakespeare version of Macbeth edited by Kenneth Muir and published in 1984.**


	16. Chapter 16

At first, the kiss was awkward, consisting of light but needy lip brushes and strained but caring mouth sucks. It was only Sherlock's second time kissing someone and, furthermore, it was his first time being the initiator - hence, he was not exactly sure how to proceed. It did not help matters that John practically melted into a puddle of giddy uselessness as soon as their lips met. But Sherlock had never shied away from a challenge before and he most certainly would not shy away now.

Naturally, Sherlock had seen people kiss before (he did not want to think about the amount of times he had witnessed Anderson and Donovan snogging in Donovan's office) but he had always thought it a ridiculous act and, therefore, had abruptly turned his attentions elsewhere whenever his eyes fell on it. And, though he still recalled some of what had happened between John and him at the pool (the warm feelings that had filled his entire being, for instance), he had desperately tried to erase the event from his mind and, so, the mechanics of that particular kiss were but a blurry, faded, distorted image that he knew was futile to try to salvage; no, he could not draw on that experience now.

Yet, being the most observant man in the world, Sherlock Holmes was a quick learner. When he accidentally sucked John's bottom lip a little harder than he intended to and John responded with a satisfied squeak, the detective immediately made the action a regular occurrence. Sucking then turned to biting as John's squeals became stronger, and biting turned to tongue licks when John started practically wailing in pleasure. As the kissing intensified, John's hands began to move desperately up and down the detective's body; when the detective followed suit, he soon discovered the pleasures of rendering John a trembling mess with nothing more than his plump lips paired with his long, pale violinist fingers. Thus, in the matter of a couple minutes, it seemed that Sherlock had gone from a complete novice to a quite talented snogger.

The detective had just decided to test the effects of running his fingers through John's hair when the good doctor suddenly and adamantly pulled back with a glare. "Say it, you bloody git."

"Say what?" Sherlock demanded, looking perplexed not only that the kiss had ended but also by the fact that he was _upset_ at the kiss ending.

John's frown deepened and he folded his arms in front of his chest defiantly. "You know perfectly well what."

"No, I don't. You are going to have to work on your articulation skills," the detective replied irritably, his lips feeling strangely cold in the absence of having John against them.

"You like me. As more than a friend," John declared. The remark was pointed and triumphant, and a slight grin played across the former military man's weathered features as he said it.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "I believe that is what a kiss conveys."

John beamed fully then. "Right." And suddenly, feverishly, doctor was pushing detective up against the wall, pulling detective down by the shoulders so that they were level to one another, and kissing detective hard.

This kiss was far more possessive, aggressive, and fuelled than the one that had occurred moments before and, for a second, Sherlock panicked, his heart rate elevating in fear rather than in pleasure. It was too much, _far too much_. The sweat, the grunts, the fabric on fabric, the skin on skin, the emotions, _the goddamn emotions_ coursing through his every fiber, the tingling pleasure pooling in his stomach – _far too much_ , he just wanted it all to stop, _needed it all to end_. But then John was thrusting forward into him and the strangest sensation, a mixture of terror and exhilaration, was spreading warmly from his tummy down into his groin.

A gasp erupted from those plump, cupid bow lips. "John…I think…I think I have a…"

John grinned into the detective's lips and pushed his hips gently forward into the taller man's again, feeling the hardness there. "An erection. You have an absolutely beautiful erection."

Sherlock didn't know whether he should feel happy or foolish at the utter lack of control he currently had over his vehicle. He settled for feeling a sense of wonderment at the unending mysteries of the human body. "I've never had one before."

At this declaration, John purred, ecstatic at the thought that he (average jumper-clad he) was the first person to hold such a spell over the curly-haired man. It seemed utterly impossible, a true gift, and it thrilled the good doctor to bits. But when John reached out and touched the throbbing erection with tender fingers, Sherlock's breath hitched and he hurriedly struggled further back into the wallpaper.

John's fingers retracted in a frenzy then and he stammered worriedly, "Sorry. Shit. Sorry Sherlock. I shouldn't have done that. This is new to you - "

"Sexual acts do not alarm me, John," Sherlock interrupted sharply, raising himself to his full height then to show that he was neither afraid nor uncomfortable by what was happening. "They have puzzled me, yes. I never understood before why people delight in them so much." His breath was coming in quick huffs. "But I enjoy games. And even though this is one I never thought I would like to play, I am very much liking it right now so do not stop now, John, _do not stop_. I'm perfectly fine. It's all new sensations, that's all. They are slightly overwhelming sensations, but they are largely _good_ sensations."

John nodded, watching his flatmate carefully. "Right. We will go slow then."

"No," Sherlock said desperately, the warm feeling in his groin growing almost unbearable. When his mind wasn't occupied with a case, his thoughts went unguided and became virtually impossible to deal with. In fact, never before had he thought that anything could be more unbearable than unguided thoughts, but this…this waiting when aroused _definitely_ was! "Slow is boring. When have I ever done anything slowly?" he whined to the doctor.

"Oh, I don't know, Sherlock, maybe admitting how you felt for me was a little on the slow side? Might have been nice to do that before I got myself into a serious relationship," John suddenly snapped angrily, no longer the gentle presence he had been but moments before.

Sherlock shut his mouth tight then, clearly startled, his eyes shining. John cursed at the unexpected outburst; he could see the detective closing up again, pulling his emotions back into a tight bundle hidden from view - and John panicked, not wanting that to happen. "How long have you known that you had feelings for me?" he asked, trying to keep his voice soft, forcing his anger into the back of his mind.

The detective hesitated and a look of pain flashed across his angular features before he responded. "I…I suppose I have always seen my feelings for you…but the case…the case with Xavier forced me to _observe_ those feelings."

And then those beautiful, electrifying, colourful eyes were on John and, though they were largely unreadable, there was a turmoil brewing beyond the surface, a desperate hunger in their depths that John had never seen before and that filled the doctor with a greedy need. All of his anger disappeared in that moment and he moved closer to the curly-haired man, carefully placing his weathered hands on those delicate cheekbones and running his fingers tenderly against that pale skin. "God, Sherlock. God you are such an idiot and you are so bloody beautiful."

Sherlock flushed slightly but smirked haughtily nonetheless. "I know for a fact that I am not an idiot, and I also know for a fact that I am indeed very beautiful."

"You arrogant git," the doctor scolded, returning the smirk before pulling the detective down into another kiss, this one loving but cautious, passionate but slow. This kiss was nice, so so nice and safe and secure and _right_ that Sherlock criticized himself for not giving in to his emotions sooner, for all the times he had verbally chastised anyone who desired to feel something like this wonderful, euphoric high that was better than any drug.

With a moan, the great detective whispered in a hoarse voice, "Take my pants off, John."

John broke the kiss, his eyes widening in shock at the command. "What? Are…are you sure?"

"I never say anything unless I can say it with certainty," Sherlock replied and then he took John's hands harshly and moved them down to the fly of his expensive trousers. "So I will command you one more time, Doctor, to take my pants off. _Do not_ make me repeat myself again."

John swallowed hard, taking a moment to collect himself as his heart heaved with lust and yet something so much deeper, so much more honest and lasting and genuine than lust. Oh God, how many times had he dreamed of this moment? How many times had he fantasized about it? He purred deep in his throat, practically drooling at the very thought of pulling those trousers off of that slim, lithe body – and then he blushed at his unrestrained desire before taking a finger and thumb and unzipping the detective's dark trousers. With another wavering sigh, he wrapped his skilled hands around the waist of the trousers, and tugged swift and hard so that the trousers crumbled to the floor in a satisfying heap.

John stood motionless for a long moment, drinking in the sight of long, muscular, pale legs and wondrous erection pushing against tight and silky black pants. Beautiful. So, so beautiful. That kind of beauty should be illegal. The poor doctor's heart was thundering violently in his throat to the point that he thought it might burst…and he couldn't help it, _he just couldn't help it_ , he was leaning down and kissing the soft silk where that erection throbbed so spectacularly. When a bestial, uncharacteristic moan erupted from the detective, the former military man simply lost it; his fingers pinched both sides of the waistband of the expensive pants and he was about to release the detective of their burden when he felt the tall man's muscles tense.

When John paused in his actions and looked up into the wide eyes of Sherlock, he saw fear. But not fear fuelled by terror. No, this was the fear of vulnerability - for here was a man who was used to being in control, who was _always_ in control, and who trusted John enough to give that all away. The realization sent John into a weak-kneed state but he knew that the detective was scared and so he as the steady military man was determined to be the detective's anchor.

"Are you sure you want this?" he questioned again, gently and with a caring smile so that the detective would feel safe and secure.

Sherlock's eyes remained wide but he nodded fervently, agitatedly, his hips thrusting forward violently with want. "Yes. Do it, John, _NOW_!"

Another side of John's military background kicked in and he was quick to respond to the command, removing the expensive pants in one swift motion. Then, "Oh God," he breathed for right in front of him in all its glory was the very long, very gorgeous penis of the world's only consulting detective. And it was throbbing with desire for _him_ – ordinary, anything-but-extraordinary John Watson. "Oh God," he breathed again, feeling incredibly overwhelmed and utterly insignificant. Then his stronger hand was wrapping around that beautiful penis and stroking hard and quick, while the other hand moved to steady the detective's hips.

Sherlock was throwing his head back, his curls shaking delicately against the wall. "Oh…" he grunted in that deep coffee-rich baritone of his, "….well…that…that feels good…there…umph…there is so much data to collect…umph…yes…when you do that…it releases…"

"Sherlock," John mumbled firmly as he increased the speed and intensity of his strokes. "Who bloody cares what type of hormone it releases. Don't think. Just shut up and enjoy the feeling."

The good doctor expected some biting remark from the handsome man in his hands - but when he was met with silence, he looked up to discover that he had quite literally rendered the detective speechless. Sherlock's eyes were shut tight, his breath coming in small, panting spurts, his hands trying desperately to dig into the wall. John felt slightly guilty for finding the detective's lack of control so utterly beautiful to witness.

Everything was perfect. Everything was bliss. It was as if time had stopped and the universe had shrank so that everything was John and Sherlock and nothing else mattered and nothing would ever be wrong in the world again. But something wrong _did_ happen and their universe of two exploded in a cacophony quicker than a flash of lightning.

As Sherlock trembled and John stroked, someone knocked on the door.

At the knock, both men moaned quietly and John was ready to yell, "Sod off!" when a voice came faintly from behind the door.

"John? It's Mary. Are you in there?" She sounded worried, anxious.

Well, John Watson froze, his throat closing up and threatening to strangle him. Mary. As the events between he and Sherlock had accelerated, he had all but forgotten about Mary…his _girlfriend_ Mary, the very Mary that he had recently proclaimed his love for. He let go of Sherlock and covered his mouth with his now-trembling hands as he tried to stifle a horrified scream. What was he doing? What in _bloody hell_ was he doing?

"Don't let her in!" Sherlock hissed in a whisper, voice thick with desire and frustration at the absolutely unwanted, ill-timed interruption.

John shot Sherlock an agitated look before half-growling, half-whispering back, "Do you bloody well think I am going to let her in here with you half naked and both of us hot, bothered, and wet?"

"John!" The doctor held his breath as Mary's voice came muffled behind the wood again. "John! Are you there? I just want to know if you've talked to Sherlock. I just want to know that everything is okay."

When Sherlock bent down to pull up his fallen pants and trousers, causing metal to clang against hard floor, John turned on him with a violent albeit whispered, "You better be quiet if you want her to go away," and the detective quickly gave up trying to cover himself. In fact, Sherlock's eyes lit up hopefully then. "So that we can continue what we started?" he asked in a hushed but eager voice, pointing to his still quite-hard penis.

John's hands were now grabbing his blonde-grey hair in consternation as he started spluttering to himself, "Sod this! Sod this!"

One final knock from Mary. "John?...Well, I guess you're not there then…Sherlock, are you there, perhaps?...If you are, please open the door…I guess no one is home…I hope that means you are not fighting anymore, that you are out together solving a case or something equally fun…I'm sorry about dinner, John….I love you."

As soon as those last three words were uttered, the poor army doctor openly deflated, his brow furrowing in extreme worry. The sound of Mary's steps faded into the distance and everything became hideously silent.

"John?" Sherlock's irritated voice broke the tension.

"What?" John asked, his voice coming as if from a great distance, his gaze unfocused and faraway.

Sherlock huffed. "Now that she is gone, I would like to finish what we started."

"Right." The doctor sounded broken and he did not move from where he had turned to look at the door.

"You're thinking so loud that my ears are practically ringing, John," Sherlock whined. "What are you thinking about and can't it wait until after we finish what we were doing?"

John approached the curly-haired man as if through a pool of molasses and lifted a hand to brush tenderly at the bruising that covered one side of that chiseled face. The bruising that he had so recently caused. He felt sick. Sicker than he had felt before. "Sherlock," he said, his voice breaking slightly, "I am so sorry."

The apology sounded multi-dimensional, as if John was referring not only to the punch he had thrown at dinner but to something else as well. Sherlock could feel his own throat burn with dread as the doctor began to speak again. "Sherlock, I can't. I shouldn't have…I don't know what came over me…I care so much about you and I always will and you will always be my best friend…but…but I can't do this. You had your chance and you turned it down and now I'm with Mary and I also care about her a lot and I have made a commitment to her and…she…she deserves her chance and I am going to give it to her."

Sherlock stared with those twinkling, magnificent eyes of blue, green, gold, and grey – he stared down at his flatmate, his best friend, his so-much-more-than-best-friend. But even though a thousand painful, awful, horrifying, all-consuming emotions were coursing through his slender body and his brilliant mind, John could not read any of them.

"Sherlock…please say something," the doctor pleaded breathlessly, his voice tight and constrained.

But the detective didn't speak, didn't blink, didn't flinch as he bent down to pull his pants and trousers up over himself, over the part of himself that he had never had the desire or the strength to share with anyone until tonight.

"Okay," John stuttered, his head dropping in indescribable sadness, shame, regret, and guilt. "Okay. Fuck. _Fuck_! I need…I need some air. I…I will be back…later. Right."

And then, with a sniff and a shuddering breath, the former army doctor turned on his heels and left the flat, leaving a numb Sherlock Holmes struggling to zip up his trousers with trembling fingers.


	17. Chapter 17

For Sherlock Holmes, life went on as usual after John Watson's rejection - and the bruises that had once covered the detective's face healed and vanished from sight. But that is not to say that the world's only consulting detective had not initially been confused by the rejection. After all, there was sufficient data to point towards John's affection for him. Sherlock had noted that the kiss was needy and yet John Watson had a girlfriend - so surely the only reason why he should display any neediness would be out of a deep desire not simply for physical stimulation but rather for the detective himself. And the way that John had cooed over the detective's erection, touching it tenderly, kissing it sweetly...that had to signify affection.

But then John had said, "I can't do this." Every time the detective replayed the event in his mind, it ended the same - with John rushing out of the flat. And so, Sherlock was left to conclude that John's aroused kisses and touches were nothing more than biological responses to his advances - biological responses devoid of sentiment. And, other than the slightly hollow feeling deep in his gut at this thought, Sherlock found that it didn't really matter to him. He didn't see the doctor much now anyway. John was barely ever home anymore, was always spending the night at Mary's and taking her out on silly little dates. It was a tad bit annoying - only a tad bit. Frankly, Sherlock didn't know where John got the money - the only job that John had was with Sherlock, blogging and helping with cases, and John hadn't worked a case in ages (not that it paid much; the only time they were paid for their efforts was when John insisted). No matter though. John's financial situation was not Sherlock's concern. Nor did Sherlock care what John did with his life. Not really. After all, before John, Sherlock had never been a man ruled by emotion - so how difficult could it be to stifle his emotions for the doctor now? Not hard; not when there were cases to be solved and experiments to be conducted and newspapers to be read and music to be composed. Not hard in the slightest.

Mostly.

Kind of.

The only time that it was more of a challenge was when the detective was called to a crime scene and had to go without his blogger. Or when he left a crime scene and returned to an empty flat. Or when he found himself hungry because he had forgotten to eat and there was nobody around to order take-out. Or when he really wanted some tea and he had to make it for himself…and only make one cup instead of two. Or when he wondered if he could even consider John to be his blogger now, when no blog entries had been written for many, many weeks. And then there was that time when Sherlock searched the fridge for milk and he found none and there was no one to run to the grocery store to get it.

But other than these utterly few and incredibly rare events, Sherlock Holmes was doing very well indeed without John Watson.

And besides, the two men were still friends. Just this morning, John had texted Sherlock:

**Been awhile since we've spent time together. Mary works tonight though, so would you like to go out for Chinese food? I'm spending the day with her but can come by the flat at 5. Let me know.**

Well, that text revealed that John was still thinking of Sherlock, that John still wanted to spend time with Sherlock, that John still desired to be connected to Sherlock. And, even though life without John was honestly not that difficult at all, Sherlock still wanted to be connected to the doctor too. So he was very quick to reply yes.

5:00 P.M. saw Sherlock Holmes sitting on the couch, dressed in ivory-coloured shirt and navy-coloured suit, his fingers drumming against his knees, his eyes turned towards the door in anticipation, his heart pounding in his chest.

5:05 P.M. and Sherlock was wondering if John would stay for the night. His flatmate hadn't really felt like a flatmate recently. And yet, John had not moved out of 221B. Not really. The majority of his clothes were still in his room, as was his laptop and all of his medical books. So perhaps John would come back after dinner, and Sherlock could fill him in on the latest cases he had solved and maybe John would make him some tea and, who knows, the detective might even be able to endure some crap telly if his flatmate wanted to watch it.

At 5:15 P.M., with still no sign of his friend, Sherlock's fingers were drumming against his knees twice as fast as they previously had been, and his legs were bobbing up and down in a frenzy.

At 5:30 P.M., Sherlock texted the doctor to see what was taking him so long and to say that he was getting bored of waiting.

At 5:40 P.M., Sherlock had not received a text in reply and concluded that John was not coming. That was perfectly fine with the detective. Perfectly and completely fine. He was not hungry anyway and he had better things to do. For instance, he had reading to catch up on. Journal articles. He had journal articles to look at. Moving to the book shelf, he pulled one at random out of a tidy row and opened it to a page that he had bookmarked. But when he looked down, he found that it was the article on ratiocination that Xavier Smithe had published before his death. And there, staring up at him with tight lips, chiseled cheekbones, flawless curls, and ice cold eyes was Xavier in photograph form. The conceit pouring from the professor's glare made Sherlock slightly uneasy, but there was something else in those eyes that made him even more uneasy still. Behind the arrogant glow was something swirling lost and hidden in the current, a tremulous and unreadable hollowness that sent the detective flinging the journal across the room with a deep moan. Yes, in the depths of Xavier's eyes was the loss of realizing and uttering feelings far too late.

At 6:00 P.M., Sherlock was roaming the streets of London in need of some fresh air (he would have to complain to Mrs. Hudson about the utterly stuffy conditions he had to endure in the flat - preposterous and unacceptable conditions), his text message inbox empty, his phone devoid of missed calls. He did not really notice the cars zooming past him or the people walking around him until a glint of something familiar - tan and cozy - caught the corner of his eye. He turned sharply, holding his breath, and the familiar image came into crystal clear view.

Through the window of a quaint Italian restaurant, Sherlock could see John in tan wool cable-knit jumper with a glass of wine in his hand and a smile on his face. Opposite him sat the woman who was supposed to be working but was clearly doing anything but that - Mary Morstan, with her damned beautiful blonde hair and her exquisite little arms. As Sherlock stared in disbelief through the window, John leaned forward, cheeks flushed with giddiness, hands moving to Mary's face as he pulled her in for a loving, passionate, sweet sweet kiss. And Mary beamed against the doctor's lips as she melted into the kiss, her body succumbing to the pleasure of it. In that image, Sherlock witnessed such love, such dedication, such commitment, such hope, and such potential. And all of a sudden, his stomach lurched and he felt sick, so incredibly sick. A sour taste creeped up his throat and tickled at his mouth. _Shit_. He turned, eyes desperately searching for a garbage can.

Must have been something he ate, that was the only logical explanation for the wave of nausea. Though, as his thoughts turned to food, he realized he could not recall the last time he had consumed anything. Dehydration and hunger then. That was why he was experiencing these symptoms. Dehydration and hunger mixed in with the god awful stuffiness of the bloody flat. That was the cause of his sickness indeed. But just when Sherlock thought that he was about to dry heave himself into oblivion, the sour taste in his throat turned into laughter, a deep, eery, mocking kind of laughter that sent chills up and down his spine. And yet, though the sound he was making terrified and repulsed him, he could not stop it. He was clutching his throat in giddy pain as he stumbled in laughter down the street. He was still laughing agonizingly, breathlessly, grabbing at the tired knots that had formed in his stomach, when he returned to the flat. And he was laughing uncontrollably, whole-bodily, as he haphazardly discarded his coat and shoes and tumbled onto the couch in his suit. Giggling and giggling, he fell into an uneasy, worried sleep.

\----------------------

The first sensation he felt was the weight of extra fabric enveloping his body and, as the pleasant smell of laundry detergent hit his nose, he realized that he was being covered in a blanket. The second sensation he felt was weight on the couch next to his torso, a sagging that indicated that someone had sat down. Then, warm fingers cautiously, gently, shyly running through his dark curls...the hot and wet sensation of lips pressed against the side of his face, where pale skin had so recently been covered in purple bruising. Next, whispers that smelled of tea and honey, comfortable and homey. Sherlock kept his eyes closed tight, his body relaxed, determined to maintain a composure of deep sleep so that he could hear the gentle words John spoke to him; for he knew that John would recoil in embarrassment if he knew that the detective was actually awake.

"Sherlock, I am so sorry...So sorry about everything...Forgetting about dinner tonight... Punching you in the face...Rejecting you...Not being around much anymore...Hurting you. And...and I'm really sorry that you hurt me too...Perhaps I am sorry about that most of all."

Another kiss, tender and light, this time planted on the detective's forehead. A hushed "Sleep well, Sherlock," and breath against curl-strewn temple. And then the shifting of weight as John rose from the couch. Footsteps. The soft sound of the telly as it burst into life. More footsteps. And then there was weight on the end of the couch as John came to sit at the detective's feet. The sweet sensation of John's hand finding Sherlock's feet under the covers. The way the doctor's fingers brushed affectionately against the detective's sock-covered toes.

As Sherlock fell back into a slumber, this one much more calm and deep than his first, his heart was sure that John Watson still longed for him. Sherlock's chest swelled then and, for the first time in many, many years, his mind slowed slowed slowed and stilled so that there was only one word, one thought, one image - John - and he realized that he wanted this man, he craved this man's affection, he needed needed _needed_ this man's touch. And suddenly, the detective came to the sickening conclusion that, no, it was not easy for him to move beyond his emotions. Not easy _at all_. Why should he move beyond them anyway? He was the brilliant Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock Holmes _always_ got what he wanted. So, as the embrace of sleep tickled at his senses, the detective devised a plan to ensure he won his doctor back from beautiful, blonde-haired Mary Morstan. To ensure that John would never ever forget that he belonged with the world's only consulting detective now and forever. The game was on!


	18. Chapter 18

When the networks began to showcase their infamous teleshopping programs, John knew that it was time to call it a night. His fingers retracted from where they had been resting against the cotton-clad feet of his flatmate, and he tried desperately not to think of how empty and cold he now felt at the loss of connection. Slowly, he rose from the couch to turn off the telly, being ever careful not to disturb his sleeping flatmate. The man whose chest was rising and falling in tranquil, small movements and whose face was relaxed, calm, and vulnerable. The man who, in this moment, was eerily unlike the usually calculating, sharp-tongued, energized, maddening one that John had come to know so well. The man who John could not deny looked so...so _beautiful_ lying motionless in the darkened room.

With a quiet groan, John stretched his tired muscles and blinked at the clock, a comfortable drowsiness taking hold of his senses. It was just past midnight. He could hear rain pounding against the window, and his body shivered at the thought of facing the cold night air. Mary would probably be sleeping by now anyway. Perhaps he should stay the night. Besides, the flat was nice - it really was home, with its nostalgic scent of chemicals mixed with dust laced with the fading smells of fresh baked goods delivered by Mrs. Hudson.

Perhaps it was nostalgia then, a quiet and undefined sense of loss and longing, that had motivated John to ask the detective to Chinese food when they hadn't spoken (other than the odd passing nicety) in days turned to weeks. Yes, there was no denying that the poor doctor had been battling with something quiet and unformed in the pit of his stomach for quite some time now. And this undefinable sensation deepened into an equally mysterious but even darker feeling when John decided that a cuppa before bed wouldn't be amiss, and moved into the kitchen. It had been far too long since he had set foot in the kitchen and, frankly, he was astounded to find that it was a complete and utter mess. More dusty than normal if that was possible. There were mud tracks all over. Some experiment was rotting on the table; a faint but putrid smell emitted from it.

And as John witnessed this mess, he felt a horrid twisting in his throat - because here was proof that he hadn't been home enough ever since...ever since _that night_. Here was proof that this place which _should_ be his home really no longer was his...because he wouldn't let it be. Because he was pushing it away even though it was still welcoming him with open arms, his teapot and mugs waiting for him by the sink, his books and laptop left untouched in his room. And...and Sherlock was a grown man _damn it_ , Sherlock _really_ should clean up once in awhile; but here too, among the mess and decay, was proof that Sherlock was waiting for John to come home, waiting for the good doctor to yell about the mess, hoping that the doctor would be there to clean it up soon, telling himself that such would be the case.

The truth was, John stayed away because he was afraid. Afraid of being home. Afraid of being near his flatmate. Afraid of feeling too much. Afraid of Sherlock's emotions. Afraid of everything except for Mary. Because Mary was steady and dependable...because with Mary he always felt in control and with Sherlock his life was one big whirlwind of unpredictability.

His throat tightened yet again and he coughed as a jolt of longing raced through his veins. How could it be that he craved unpredictability and yet feared it at the same time? He needed it - the suspense of crimes and wars and guns and blood sent goosebumps of anticipation springing to his skin. And yet, the mystery of emotions...unexpected heart breaks...those things he could not handle. Not anymore. And that is why steady, faithful Mary needed this chance with John and why arrogant, fiery Sherlock would not be allowed to toy with his heart again. That is why it was easy to focus on Mary. That is why, though John could never ever forget about his flatmate, though said flatmate always played at the corners of his mind and the end of his every breath and thought, he _forced_ himself to focus on Mary - and that is why, when Mary's evening appointment was cancelled, John forgot about Chinese food with Sherlock.

John loved Mary. He had meant it when he said those three special words to her. He could feel deep care emitting from his heart when he looked into her pretty little eyes...when he kissed her. It was a safe, simple affection that was so unlike the kind you read about in romance novels or witness in sappy soap operas and chic flicks. It was not the sort that gave you tickling and titillating tornadoes in your stomach at the thought of the person. Nor was it a love that drove you insane with hunger and thirst and unquenchable lust. No. This was an affection that resulted in comfortable smiles and light butterflies, which was very nice indeed and probably much more reasonable, much more dependable, much less likely to cause pain. A love with the potential to last but which lacked excitement, mystery, and adventure.

John sighed, running a wearied hand over his face as he tried to swallow away the lump in his throat. Purposefully, he took his kettle, one of his mugs, and set about making tea in his home, running his hands along the stove tops and the cabinets as the water boiled, trying to ensure the flat that he did indeed belong in it. And then, with a steamy cuppa in hand, he wandered up the creaking stairs to his bedroom, hoping that the noise of foot on bending wood would not waken Sherlock. But waken the detective it did, and a smile played on those plump cupid bow lips at the thought that tonight 221B would be complete. That 221B would feel like home once more.

Just when the good doctor had stripped himself of his jeans and jumper and curled in under the blankets, the chords of violin music travelled up the stairs from the living rom to bounce hauntingly against the walls of his bedroom. The violin music was wild, fierce, predatory, possessive, speaking of games and chases and adrenaline-filled highs. And suddenly, shockingly, frustratingly, that dark, desperate music sent a storm brewing and a fire burning hot and quick in the heart of John Watson. It was a thirst-inducing fire that no amount of water could quench. The type of fire that threatened to turn a dozen butterflies into nothing but the ashes of memories long-forgotten.


	19. Chapter 19

"Good morning," John announced as he entered the kitchen the next day, freshly dressed in plaid shirt, grey cardigan jumper, and jeans.

Sherlock's back was to the doctor but John could see that he was dressed in a dark suit underneath his expensive nightgown. He ignored the doctor's greeting, rummaging about the stove, a pot of boiling water in one hand and a cup with tea bag in the other. Moving swiftly, he poured the contents of the pot into the cup and placed the pot back on the stove with a bang. When he turned around with his tea, his eyes danced mysteriously in a way that sent John's stomach into slight unease.

"Oh, yes, you're here," he said scathingly, finally looking down at the shorter man with furrowed brows. Then, "I didn't even think to make you any," pointing at his steamy beverage. "Used to not having you around, I suppose."

"Right," John said, unsettled but not necessarily surprised by the detective's caustic tone. "You never make me tea much anyways when I _am_ home."

"Do I not?" Sherlock asked as if he had forgotten, as if it had been so long ago since John had been home that their time as flatmates had vanished from the detective's memory.

Well, John's unsettled feelings grew but he tried to remain calm and collected. "You can use my kettle, you know, instead of the pot. It's easier."

"Didn't even notice it was still here," Sherlock mumbled, waving his hand at the mess carelessly.

"That's why you should clean the kitchen once in awhile," the doctor grumbled, his tone hardening slightly.

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the suggestion and then he was hurrying off into the living room, his maroon silk dressing gown billowing out behind him. John could not help but notice that it fit even looser than usual. With no one around to harass the man to eat the last little while, it seemed that Sherlock had become even skinnier than he already was before.

A guilty sigh erupted from the doctor and he set about opening the fridge with the purpose of making his impossible flatmate consume something more than tea. But when he looked inside, he found that there was nothing. The fridge was completely empty...at least, of anything edible. With a groan, John slammed the fridge shut and turned to rummaging the cupboards. All empty. All totally empty save for dust. Well, the more John searched, the more he began to feel guilty, overwhelmingly guilty...which wasn't fair, it wasn't right, he shouldn't be responsible for the eating habits of a grown man for god's sake so why the bloody hell was he feeling so guilty!

"You haven't been eating!" he practically yelled as he entered the living room, pointing an accusatory finger at the detective who was now sprawled out on the couch. "The fridge is empty. The cupboards are empty - "

"I intended to have Chinese food yesterday," Sherlock interrupted, sitting up and looking at his friend who was now standing over him. Those mysterious blue-grey eyes continued to dance under the dim morning light.

Well, John deflated, the wrinkles on his forehead deepening, his hand falling limply and defeatedly to his side. Yes, he had not been surprised by his flatmate's sharp mood this morning. How could he be surprised when he had asked the man to dinner and then gone and carelessly forgotten about it? "Right. Look, I'm sor - " But before John could apologize, Sherlock was interrupting him again.

"And I did."

"What?" the doctor answered, eyebrows raising in confusion.

"I _did_ end up getting Chinese food. With my new blogger." Those blue-grey glowing eyes were still focused unblinking on the shorter man.

"Beg pardon?" John's voice came shrilly now, eyebrows raising further, lips tensing. Surely he hadn't heard Sherlock's last statement correctly.

"Mmm," Sherlock muttered contemplatively, reaching forward to grab at the morning newspaper in front of him. He opened it with fascination and flipped through a couple of pages, relishing in the tension that he could feel emitting from John. Finally, he said, "I met him at St. Bart's a few weeks ago."

John bristled and his hands turned to fists at his sides. His breathing was shaky now. Sherlock tried not to smile, biting his bottom lip and squinting at the newspaper as John stuttered, "Beg...beg pardon?"

A shake of the newspaper and a harder bite of the lip. "Stop repeating yourself, John, it's rather tedious."

John was practically trembling now, any attempt at keeping calm clearly deemed futile. "You...you have a new blogger?" His voice was caught between a whisper and a squeak.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "I believe I just said that, yes."

And then John yelled, his voice rumbling in the back of his throat. "You don't even like my blog!"

Sherlock dramatically turned the page of the newspaper before saying, "Well, I like _his_ blog."

John stared down at his feet pathetically, huffing and puffing. "What? When...when did this happen?"

"Someone seems a little jealous."

The doctor laughed madly at that. "I'm not jealous, I just - "

But Sherlock interrupted yet again. "Of course, you were never around anymore and the cases kept coming so it was only logical that I find a replacement." Then he was up and stripping his housecoat in exchange for his Belstaff.

"Where are you going?" poor John demanded.

Sherlock didn't even turn to look at him. "Don't have time to waste. Off to St. Bart's. Working on a particularly dangerous case."

"I suppose your new blogger will be there, will he?" the former military man asked bitterly.

A small smirk from the detective. "Of course. I'd be lost without my blogger."

And he was out the door and down the stairs, curls bouncing and a triumphant smile upon his face.

\---------------------------------

That afternoon, a very irritated John Watson sat in a taxi cab next to Mary Morstan. His shoulders were stiff, his brow was set, and his jaw was clenched. An uncomfortable silence filled the air. Mary shifted in her seat, clearing her throat. She had expected that John would be slightly stressed; after all, when he had looked at his phone late the night before and realized that he had forgotten about his dinner plans with the detective, he had been absolutely distraught, pulling at his hair and rushing to Baker Street without even a coat. Yet the man sitting next to her was more than just a little stressed; though still and quiet, it seemed to Mary that he was positively fuming inside.

"So, how is Sherlock?" she finally asked, trying to break the thick tension.

"Fine." John's answer was clipped, blunt, pressured. Things certainly didn't sound "fine" to Mary. Not by a long shot. She wondered how upset Sherlock had been at John's lapse of memory. And yet, John had chosen to spend the night at Baker Street - surely that meant that there couldn't have been a big fight...right? Hesitantly, she spoke again, hoping to emphasize her support for the two men's friendship and, in so doing, to encourage John to share what had clearly upset him back at 221B:

"You should see him more, spend more time at home...I mean, of course I want to be together as much as possible but - "

"He doesn't need me, he is doing perfectly fine without me," John broke in, his tone low and lethal.

Mary shut her mouth quickly and looked out the window, swallowing hard. Whatever was bothering John, he clearly did not want to discuss it and Mary knew she should respect his wishes. But the silence soon became overwhelming again, and she turned back to her boyfriend, trying to keep her voice gentle and soft.

"John, is everything okay?"

"Yes." The man turned his body away from her, arms crossed protectively against himself.

Mary sighed, hating to see the doctor this way, wishing that he would let her in but knowing that he wouldn't. Her fingers raised to her temple and she rubbed the skin there gently. She had been with John all but half an hour, and already his foul mood had set her head throbbing with stress.

"Can you pull over here, please?" she called to the driver.

John looked at her questioningly. "I thought we were going to your flat."

Mary handed the cabbie some money as she spoke. "I just want to grab a coffee. I have a bit of a headache and coffee generally helps. There's a cafe just at the corner here."

John didn't reply to that, getting out of the cab stiffly and slamming the door far harder than was necessary. Mary gave the cabbie an apologetic look before following after the doctor and escorting him into the coffee shop. It was a cheery little place, with elegant wallpaper, watercolour paintings displayed in golden frames, folk music playing softly in the background, a hearty fireplace in one corner, and clean white tables and chairs lined up against a large window. It wasn't too crowded either, with only a few people seated and a minimal line.

"So what's the plan?" John asked as he retrieved his wallet from his back jeans pocket, frowning when he felt how light it was. He really needed to get a job...especially since he was apparently no longer Sherlock's blogger. His throat burned in agitation at the thought.

"Plan?" Mary looked confused.

John cleared his throat, willing the burning sensation to go away. "What are we going to do today?"

The blonde-haired woman shrugged. "I don't know, I figured we'd just go back to my flat and have a quiet day in."

Her boyfriend nodded, but his voice was tense. "We had a quiet day in yesterday."

"Yes. But we went out for dinner."

"And the day before that...that was a quiet one too," he continued, ignoring Mary's remark about dinner.

By now, it was Mary's turn to order and she turned her attention to the barista. "Just a latte please." She then waited for the doctor to place his order ("A coffee, no sugar.") before she spoke to him again: "Well, is there something you want to do?"

John gave a small, thankful, and slightly relieved smile at the question. "Maybe just...maybe just something a little bit...I don't know...more exciting than a day in."

Mary looked contemplative before her eyes lit up with excitement. "Well...I know...why don't we sit here and drink our coffee instead of taking it to go? You're right, we are at the flat a lot, aren't we? It's nice here."

The former military man had enough patience left in him to wait for Mary to grab her latte and move away from him towards a table before he muttered in a sarcastic tone, "Yes, very exciting...brilliant idea."

But just as he grabbed his own coffee and was about to join Mary, his cell phone buzzed in his jeans pocket. Quickly, he grabbed for it and read the text message that was lit in blue across the screen:

**Was attacked. Alleyway outside St. Bart's. Help. SH**

John didn't even realize that he had let go of his coffee. Nor did he hear the cup smash against the floor, spilling sticky hot beverage in all directions. No...all he could hear was his heart pumping with adrenaline in his chest and the sound of his feet heavy with purpose as he ran out the door in the direction of the hospital.


	20. Chapter 20

**Disclaimer: Please be aware that there are moments in this chapter that could be seen as non-consensual**

"The thrill of the chase, the blood pumping through your veins. Just the two of us against the rest of the world." A breathless, flushed Sherlock had once uttered those words to John as they crouched behind a dumpster in pursuit of a serial killer. And as soon as those words had left the detective's lips, electric shocks had sped down the doctor's legs and into his toes because, truly, in that moment, that had been all John Watson wanted and desired in this world - just the two of them solving crimes.

Now Sherlock's words echoed in John's ears as his entire being thrummed with the horrifying thrill of chasing fear. He was breathing fear, he was swallowing fear, he was sweating fear. The blood was practically exploding from his veins it was pumping so hard. His feet were pounding fear, screaming fear, wailing fear as they thudded against the pavement, sending painful shock waves up his ankles into his knees. But this pain was easy to ignore for there was no pain more drowning than the fear of Sherlock suffering. So John ran and ran and ran until his bones ached and his breath almost failed. He ran and ran and ran, rounding the corner of St. Bart's and entering the alleyway. He ran and ran and ran, steady and surefooted despite his vision blurring from overexertion. He ran and ran and ran...and then he collapsed in dismay at the image in front of him.

Lying behind a dumpster, crumpled like a forgotten piece of garbage, was Sherlock Holmes. He was face down and a sickeningly large pool of blood was spreading out from his chest, caressing him in a menacing embrace.

"God no, God no, no, no," John pleaded breathlessly, forcing himself forward towards his friend even though the world around him was spinning out of control. "Sher…Sherlock…SHERLOCK!" John's voice broke into a cry of savage, primal, bestial fear and utter, utter desperation. Sherlock was hurt…Sherlock was very clearly hurt…what if John was too late? Oh God, no, no, no, that was an unthinkable, preposterous idea! There was no way that John was too late. There was no way that Sherlock Holmes, the strongest and wisest and most lively man that John had ever met, could be seriously hurt – Sherlock was untouchable. Yet…yet here was a motionless body…Oh God, no, no, no. And though the poor doctor's world was turning fuzzy around the edges, he stumbled towards his friend and managed to pull his cell phone out of his pocket to dial for help.

But just as John began to dial, the blood-soaked body in front of him stirred and emitted a guttural moan. John's heart leaped and he hastily discarded the phone, not even hearing it clatter harshly against concrete he was in such a fluster to get to the detective's side.

"John?" It was a barely audible noise, but John's heart swelled all the same to hear it. By now, he was gently turning the man over. Pale ice-blue eyes opened feebly and looked up at him. Then, with a horrific animalistic groan, the detective pushed himself up into a sitting position and slumped against the doctor's chest. Oh God, there was blood everywhere…so, so, so much blood that it was improbable…impossible for Sherlock to be okay. And John was in tears, his face contorting as salty sobs wrenched his gut. "Sher…oh God…oh God…Sherlock, what in the world happened? Oh God, Sherlock."

"The…the case, John," Sherlock whispered, panting slightly in what John assumed to be intense pain. "The case…I was working on the case…with my blogger…and everything was perfect, John…life was perfect…the game was on…and then she hurt me…she took my blogger away…and…and she stabbed me in the heart…John…it hurts so bad…I am in so much pain…"

John ran gentle fingers through Sherlock's hair, his tears tumbling and tangling in those sweat-covered locks as he whimpered to the detective, "Keep talking, Sherlock. Stay with me. Keep talking. Keep your eyes focused on me. I am going to get help. Who did this to you?"

And then, to John's shock and disbelief, Sherlock's bottom lip began to quiver, his eyebrows furrowed, and an indescribable sadness crossed his face as hot tears erupted from those beautiful ice-blue eyes.

"No…no…Sherlock, don't cry. It's going to be okay. I am going to get help," John said, laying Sherlock down carefully on the concrete before fumbling for his recently discarded phone. But when the former military man grabbed the phone, he found that it was broken beyond repair, a sharp crack running the length of its body. "Fuck…you bloody fucking idiot, John," he whispered under his breath before turning to Sherlock and demanding, "Where is your phone?"

Tears were no longer spilling from the detective's eyes. Now he simply looked cold, detached, and slightly dejected. "It's dead."

John's own eyes practically bulged out of his head at those two words. "It's…it's what?"

"It's dead. It died shortly after I texted you."

John was trembling uncontrollably now, his head shaking back and forth in a fury. He needed to keep his composure. He was a bloody doctor. He had been in war. He should be able to keep his composure. Why was his steadfastness failing him now? Now…when it mattered most…why couldn't he think clearly? Why was he nothing more than a bumbling, sobbing mess? "Nope…nope…shut up now you bloody bastard…don't you dare fuck with me, Sherlock…don't you dare fuck with me." The poor doctor's voice was tight and strained and he thought he might just rupture a vocal chord his breath was so shallow and painful.

"John," Sherlock said, his voice shaky but persistent all the same. "John, listen to me, I am being honest. My phone is dead. It's in my back trouser pocket. Check if you don't believe me."

Well, now John was on his feet and pulling at his hair. "I will be right back, I am getting help, I am finding someone...a nurse or something...we are right by a bloody hospital...and they will bring a stretcher and you will go into St. Bart's and you will get the care you need." And the doctor had just started running purposefully back towards the main street when Sherlock's strangled voice cried for him. John turned to see the detective crumple in on himself and begin to twitch and contort. And perhaps John was an idiot for returning to the detective's side instead of getting help, but that is what John always did - he always returned to Sherlock; he simply could not help himself.

Within a matter of mere seconds, Sherlock was laying on his back, John was on his knees, and desperate, trembling fingers were fumbling with the dark-haired man's shirt. "Stay with me, Sherlock. Stay with me, you bloody git."

Sherlock's breathing was shallow, but his eyes remained surprisingly sharp for someone so injured. He turned them on John. "John…it's too late…"

John bit his bottom lip and resumed shaking his head back and forth frantically. "Nope…nope…you shut up right now, Sherlock. I am going to save you. I'm a bloody doctor. I will carry you into that hospital and operate on you myself if that's what it takes, you hear me?" And with those words, John Watson did indeed try to lift the detective - but even though the detective was slender, he was muscular and currently hanging heavy and thick like a dead weight. "I just..." John strained, trying to pull his friend into his arms. "God damn it..." And John tumbled to the floor in failure, grabbing Sherlock's form before it too hit the pavement. With a groan, John once again resumed pulling at the other man's shirt. "I just...I just need to see this wound." If only his fingers would stop shaking so much then he could get this fucking shirt open. What was the matter with him? His fingers never shook…not when it mattered…why were they shaking so horridly now?

"John…" Sherlock's voice was faint, so terrifyingly faint, and his eyes fluttered. "John…I think I'm going to die…"

Now John's chin fell onto his chest and he began to weep deeper tears than he had been previously. These were heartbroken tears. "No. No you bloody git, don't you dare leave me. Sherlock…damn it, Sherlock…" And John's fingers slowed enough for him to focus on unbuttoning Sherlock's shirt so that he could properly see the wound. "I love you…goddamn it, Sherlock…stay with me...I'm far too in love with you to lose you now."

Sherlock's breath hitched powerfully then and his eyes burst wide open. "You…what did you say, John?"

"You heard me. I said I love you, you bloody git, so don't you dare leave me now," John said fiercely as he finally unbuttoned the bottom of Sherlock's shirt and ripped it from the detective's slender frame. Sherlock was suddenly wearing a crooked grin on his face, his eyes were glowing with triumph, and his breath had increased to a rapid, excited pitch, but John was too focused on finding the wound to even take notice.

God, there was so much blood. Blood everywhere. It smelled ferociously, making John's senses swim slightly. It smelled so…well…as John inhaled deeper, he had to admit that it didn't really smell much like blood at all. It wasn't metallic in scent…no…rather, it was sweet in scent. But John pushed this thought aside as he found the wound, a deep, burgundy black wound right below Sherlock's heart. With soldierly power, John ripped a piece of Sherlock's shirt and was placing it on the wound to try to stop the bleeding. Except that…as soon as the cloth touched the wound, the wound smeared. John's brows furrowed as he stared down at the detective's chest. Then, gingerly, he pressed a finger to the spot where the smeared wound was. And to the poor doctor's dismay, he found that the skin was healthy and simply covered in some kind of thick, horrific stage paint. John's throat hitched and a look of utter betrayal, of confused hurt, crossed his wearied features.

"The wound…the wound…it's fake. Is this one of your…sod this…have you been faking everything…don't tell me that you've been bloody well faking your injury this entire time!"

"Surprise!" Sherlock backed away from the doctor, the look of feigned weakness that had been covering his chiseled features suddenly turning into a downright powerful look of discomfort. Indeed, he had never seen John look so ferocious.

"You don't have a wound. You…you complete arsehole…you aren't hurt at all." John's words were raspy and strained. He felt as though someone had punched him with an anvil right in the centre of his gut.

Sherlock dared to give John an innocent, pleading look. "I don't have a physical wound, though I do believe that I have a -"

But John wasn't listening. "Why? Why in God's name would you do that? Why in God's name would you put me through that? Was this whole thing your idea of some sick joke?"

Sherlock backed into the dumpster, shielding himself with it for protection though he nevertheless could not bite back the excited, victorious tone in his voice as he said, "John…I needed to hear you say how you feel about me…that you care for me...but, more importantly, I wanted you to hear yourself voice your honest feelings for me when you thought I was in danger so that maybe you can understand that you -"

"WHY? BECAUSE YOU THINK IT'S FUNNY?" John interrupted before Sherlock could finish. John stood erect, his hands in powerful fists, his jaw clenched, his stare predatory.

"No…no, no…" Sherlock bumbled. And then, after a pause, "Though the way your face contorts when you cry is rather amusing…"

"SOD OFF!" John bellowed, his voice ricocheting in trembling echoes through the alleyway.

"John," Sherlock said cautiously, suddenly regaining his healthy, spry step as he jumped to his feet and hurriedly grabbed the doctor by the shoulders. "John…you should know that you make my heart beat faster and my pulse elevate and…"

With a primitive roar, John swung an arm at Sherlock and Sherlock ducked out of the way before breathlessly spitting out, "…well, in other words, I love you too."

"YOU COCK! You great big cock! I hate you. I BLOODY WELL HATE YOU!" John exploded, his eyes wild, his body poised for a fight, his energy violent and murderous.

And before Sherlock could react, John had knocked him viciously to the floor - the detective's entire body all the way to the tips of his teeth ached with the impact of bone and muscle on unbending pavement. Then John's hands were lifting and Sherlock was bracing himself for a dreadful blow to the face. The poor detective closed his eyes, waiting for the impact of fist on cheekbone. But what he felt instead was the heavy weight of fabric around his ankles, cold pavement scratching against his suddenly uncovered arse, and wind teasing at his utterly exposed cock; for, in one furious pull, John had stripped Sherlock of trousers and pants. And then John's mouth and teeth came down on Sherlock's cock like a lion digging in for a feast, and Sherlock screamed louder and longer than he ever had before, his vocal chords vibrating in complete and blissful pleasure as his innards swam with warm and desperate arousal.


	21. Chapter 21

Mary was sitting in the corner of the coffee shop admiring a watercolour picture of a sunset over a tranquil lake when her peace was disrupted by the sound of spilling liquid. Then came shocked voices and the stomping of feet. She averted her gaze from the painting just in time to see that John Watson had carelessly dumped his coffee across the once-clean floor, and was now crashing through the door of the café and dashing down the street without so much as a glance at her. Mary stood and stepped forward to follow him – but, though she was curious and concerned about the cause of his sudden departure, she was, admittedly, also upset. Upset by John's foul mood, his distracted manners, at the way that he (and it made her heart ache to admit it) seemed to wish all afternoon that she would simply disappear.

It had been clear to Mary that lately John was growing increasingly tense, agitated, and withdrawn. He still kissed her with passion and care, he still held her protectively, he still laughed and smiled in ways that revealed Mary brought him joy. Yet his voice was sharper than usual, his jaw set more firmly than before, his lips tighter than ever. It seemed that John's distress stemmed from Sherlock for, whenever the detective's name was uttered, John's nose would crinkle very slightly but very perceptibly and his voice would take on such a clipped tone that it almost sounded otherworldly. The fact that it seemed to be Sherlock who was the cause of John's distress perplexed Mary. She knew they were best friends and she feared that something had split their relationship asunder, especially considering how rarely the doctor returned to 221B now and that he had all but forgotten his recent dinner plans with the detective. John would never forget about his best friend – never before, at least. Mary tried to reach out, to open her sweet and steady self up to John so that he knew that he could share his vulnerabilities, his pains, his fears, and his insecurities with her. She was happy to be his foundation. Yet the more that she tried to offer a gentle but assuring hand, the more that he seemed to stiffen and resist her. He was shutting Mary out, and it was downright unfair when all she longed for and all she _should_ be as his significant other was his rock and anchor.

As the army doctor turned down a side street out of view, Mary found she in turn was pulled away from him towards the tranquil watercolour sunset and lake. This discomfort she was feeling, this distress and agitation, was so akin to a very unpleasant memory that she had tried vehemently to push from her mind but that still tickled her thoughts from time to time. Mary rubbed at her wedding ring finger, at the spot where she had once worn a diamond band around it – and, for the first time in a very long while, she thought about the moment she had fearfully fled from her once-planned nuptials because the man she was supposed to spend her life with had started to avoid her at a time when he should have been drawing nearer to her. Then her thoughts turned to the moment she had smelled perfume other than her own deep in the recesses of his dirty clothing. She had set herself free from the horrid uncertainties because she knew that she deserved better. And surely here and now she deserved better too…yes, she devoured John's caring looks and steamy kisses, but she also deserved for John to let her in, not for him to shut her out and withdraw into himself, not for him to run away down the street without so much as a passing glance.

After Sherlock had blurted the secret of Mary's engagement during their disaster of a dinner together, John hadn't asked her about the matter and she had been too nervous to bring it up. Initially Mary had assumed it was because John had been so upset over Sherlock that he had completely forgotten the little tidbit of news about her past. Then she had considered perhaps it was because John so highly valued what she and he had that he did not feel the need to hear about her past. But, as she stood abandoned in the little coffee shop, she started to have more unpleasant thoughts. She couldn't help but think, given John's recent withdrawal, that perhaps his lack of interest in her past was simply a sign that he couldn't bother to care enough about her. _Not this again. Please not this again. Things have been good. We have been good. The kisses he has given me have been filled with affection. He has been good to me and we have been happy. He has chosen to spend time with me above anyone else and surely that is telling. We laugh together. We love together. I have been happy and this time surely it is different. His sweet, sweet kisses are honest. I am only insecure from old memories._ Mary's hands shook and she found herself frozen to the spot, suddenly terrified.

In that moment of fear and insecurity, she directed her breathing, her spirit, her beating heart, her very core towards the painted lake scene, the artificial snapshot of peace - and everything around her seemed to melt and blend and blur into the blue, silver, red, pink, and orange hues of the watercolour until the storm waging within her was a distant image falling from her memory to a remote place beyond the watercolour lake, far far beyond the warmth of the painted sun, far far beyond her and John and reality and time itself. And as Mary's breathing slowed, as she inhaled the colourful fumes of the watercolour lake and its little painted sky, she exhaled the stresses that she had not realized she had been holding so tightly within her bones. Her eyes gently closed and the sounds of London were lost to her, the honking of horns as traffic sped by outside the café, the clicking of hurried feet on concrete, all of it was lost to her. She was an infant again, new to the world, captivated by its beautiful colours, unaware of its harsh edges, and she felt fresh and invigorated...but she also felt so incredibly lonely. And suddenly the reds and pinks and oranges of the painted sunset turned into fire that made her hot around the edges, and her eyes burned wet and salty fire and –

"It's a beautiful painting, isn't it?"

Mary's eyes shot open and she was once again standing in the quaint little café, trembling and with tears that she hadn't known she'd shed tumbling down her cheeks. Next to her was a soft-haired young woman with a kind face, gentle countenance, and warm smile who was holding a fresh cuppa in one hand and looking up at the watercolour painting that had captivated Mary's soul mere seconds before.

Mary blushed furiously. "Yes, it's a lovely painting," she replied to the young woman before quickly wiping her cheeks to try to cover her emotional display.

The young woman looked at Mary now and concern lit her features. "Oh goodness, I'm sorry, I didn't realize that you…um…I wouldn't have come over if…if I'd known…that is…is everything okay? Is there anything I can do…to…to help you?" And then her soft hair was swinging as she rushed to gather up napkins from a nearby table. "Here…" she held them out to Mary.

Mary took the napkins and quickly wiped away the tear stains marking her face. "Thank you," she told the young woman gratefully. "I don't know what happened. I just…life has been kind of stressful lately but I didn't realize just how much so and I was trying to forget about old memories for a moment and…sorry, listen to me blubbering on." She took a shaky laugh and ran a hand through her golden hair. "I'm Mary."

The young woman with the soft hair and the truly warm eyes (come to think of it, Mary didn't know if she'd ever seen such warm eyes before) flashed one of her lovely smiles again. "It's okay. I know what it's like to want to forget things. There are things that I've wanted to forget…people and the painful memories that they have caused…but I've found that it's impossible to forget important things and oftentimes the people and memories you want to forget are important in some way or another…they teach you and they make you stronger and they help you grow and they better you, so you can't really forget about them nor should you really want to. They are important for a reason, after all, aren't they?...Oh goodness, now listen to me blubbering on. Sorry. That's embarrassing…silly me. Mary, you said? That's a lovely name and it'll be quite easy for me to remember right now. Someone very...important in my life has had some…well, let's just say a Mary has stolen his heart…in a sense. Sorry, blubbering again, oh dear. I'm Molly," and Molly offered her free hand to Mary for a shake.

"Molly! Well, that name will be easy for me to remember too. My partner and his friend speak very highly of someone with the exact same name."

Molly's hand was soft but strong in Mary's and somehow the golden-haired woman was filled with peace at this small but very human contact. However, when the noise of a cell phone erupted from Molly's coat pocket, the soft-haired woman's hand drew away to reach for it. Mary was surprised by how cold and empty she felt at the loss of touch. Yet Mary felt even colder when she noticed the distraught look that settled over Molly's features.

"What is it, what's wrong?" Mary asked.

Molly shook her head determinedly, her eyes on the screen of her cell phone. "Oh…it's nothing."

"It doesn't look like nothing," Mary said, her tone revealing her evident concern.

"Oh…it's just…my date for the afternoon had to cancel. We were going to meet here, but...well, he's had to stay at work later than expected."

"I'm sorry to hear that. Where does he work that's kept him?" Mary asked curiously.

"St. Bart's. He's a nurse. Working at a hospital, it can be a bit of an iffy schedule…people always need a hospital after all, it's not like you can open and close as you please. I know. I work at St. Bart's too. That's how he and I met." Molly gave a light smile at that, as if recalling the moment that the nurse and her had placed eyes on each other and sparks had flown.

For a second, Mary considered asking if this Molly knew a John or Sherlock; she remembered that John and Sherlock's friend Molly worked at St. Bart's too. But then Mary pushed the idea aside, for surely Molly was quite a common name. There must be quite a few Mollys in London, after all.

"It's fine…he says we will reschedule…it's just…it was supposed to be our first date and I was so looking forward to it. Anyway, there's no point in my being here now…I guess I'll just be off. Nice to meet you, Mary." And then her soft hair was flying over her shoulder as she made for the door.

Something within Mary's stomach recoiled. "Wait!" she cried out before she knew what she was doing.

Molly halted.

The golden-haired woman ran her hand through her hair nervously again before continuing. "My date…I guess you could say he cancelled last minute too. I have a latte and you have a cuppa and it's really lovely here…we could sit by the window, enjoy our drinks, and watch the sun set over London."

Molly beamed and Mary took another moment to admire how beautiful the young woman in front of her was. "Sure. I'd like that very much…I adore your scarf by the way, it's just lovely and it's my favourite colour." The soft-haired woman reached out to touch the sunshine yellow fabric wrapped around Mary's neck.

"Really? You're kidding! It's my favourite colour too, but I've never met anyone else who fancied it."

"Mm-hmm. I've loved this shade of yellow since I was a child. It makes me think of summer. And I must say, it's a particularly nice shade on you," Molly replied, her eyes appreciatively scrutinizing the scarf.

Mary flushed with pride at that. "I…um…I actually made it myself."

"Did you? Oh goodness, I've always wished that I could make pretty things!" Molly cried, looking at Mary with a mixture of admiration and envy.

"It's quite simple really. Let's sit and I can tell you how."

So the two women chatted the afternoon away as the sky turned hues more vibrant than any watercolour painting could ever capture. And that night, as Mary headed home with Molly's phone number freshly saved in her cell phone, she thought that she'd never ever seen a more beautiful London night in her entire life. She had just discarded her coat and settled on the couch for some telly when her cell phone vibrated nearby and lit up with a text message:

**Thanks for a great evening! Sweet dreams, and talk very very soon. Oxox! ~Molly**


	22. Chapter 22

**Disclaimer: Please be aware that there are events in this chapter that could be seen as non-consensual.**

At first, Sherlock's screams were of arousal and long-anticipated pleasure, but pretty soon the cries he uttered were a concoction of arousal mixed with aching, throbbing discomfort laced with – dare he say it – fear. Fear that John wouldn't stop what was growing to feel more and more like a very violent assault of anger. Fear that John was committing this intense act not out of love or desire but rather out of sick, twisted loathing and the need for revenge. Fear because Sherlock believed that he deserved this treatment and, therefore, welcomed it. 

He didn't deserve John's love. Why was he ever so foolish to think he did? He had had his chance once, and he had turned his back to it. He was an arsehole. Selfish beyond belief. These reasons in themselves made him undeserving of the generous love that John had once been willing to give, that wonderful affection that Sherlock had come to covet and that he so badly wanted to return now. When it was far too late. And how could Sherlock have expected to deserve John's love by pursuing it in a careless and selfish way? Through such trickery? But then, that was Sherlock to the core, wasn't it? Careless and selfish. And a careless and selfish person was unworthy of the love of a caring and selfless person like John Hamish Watson. 

The arousal that had been pooling in Sherlock's stomach now turned completely sour, and he was overcome with horrific nausea. His arse was so cold and so sore as it scrapped back and forth against the concrete, making a sickening melody of ravaged skin and clenched muscles. The poor detective swore that soon he would have no flesh left, that his rear end was bleeding so profusely that it was drowning the concrete scarlet. There was nothing desirable about the situation whatsoever at this point. With a shuddering breath, Sherlock clenched his eyes shut and bit his tongue desperately until he tasted blood. He was trying to numb himself to the horrible experience, yet there was still that part of him that wanted to embrace the punishment that he felt he so rightfully deserved – and, therefore, he did nothing to stop John or to push him away. 

But…but…as Sherlock allowed himself to go numb, as he allowed his breathing to shudder in heavy gulps and gasps, he found that there was one aspect of the situation that was not horrible. Not horrible whatsoever. In fact, there was one completely desirable aspect of this totally undesirable event. John Watson's mouth was on his cock. John Watson's mouth was on his very own, very hard ( _when had it gone and gotten hard?_ ) cock. That mouth was something that Sherlock had dreamed of, lusted after, needed really, since…well, since forever, he now realized. Yes, since forever. Even if he had been too much of a stubborn, worried git to let himself admit it. And so, Sherlock opened his eyes and peered down his chest at John Watson's mouth. And when he did, everything else disappeared. The harsh, horrible concrete. The oppressive wind that had suddenly decided to pick up and wrap Sherlock in never-ending waves of cold laughter. The gloomy London sky – there were clouds rolling in overhead, churning in strange movements that seemed to tango with John's anger. Oh, that angry look on John's face. The cold and hurt glint in John's eyes. But it all disappeared. 

As Sherlock's fears calmed to be buried in the distance recesses of his brain, he stared transfixed at John's lips. Those pink, weathered lips wrapped around his tender, inexperienced cock. _Oh fuck!_ Sherlock moaned, a needy and embarrassingly desperate sound that came from hidden places he had not known existed within himself. And, once again, he was filled with arousal. His heart blossomed and thrummed at the sight of John's pink mouth, and he was melting into the very idea and the very warmth and the very wetness of those lips. Before Sherlock even realized what he was doing, before he could begin to process it, he heard himself huffing out in a deep, husky, open, longing, caring, affectionate voice, "I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I am so so so so sorry, I don't deserve you John, but I love you John and I'm sorry John, I love you." 

Then his innards were crumbling and his entire form was trembling and his face was hot and wet and he was sniffling and sobbing like an idiot there on the concrete, wanting to curse his lack of control but so beyond control now that he could do nothing except continue to gasp out, "I'm sorry, I'm so so so sorry John, I don't deserve you but I love you and I am so so so sorry John, and I love you John, John, John…" He was a little, curly haired, wild-eyed boy lost in the woods, unable to see anything or feel anything or be anything at all, he was so incredibly small and scared and so very cold and lost and there was nothing that massive intellect and deduction skills could do to get him out of this mess…but then there was a warmth spreading through him and a gentle voice and a calm breeze and he wasn't so scared…there was a hand in his hair and the wind whistled to him, "You are so loved," and then he wasn't in the woods anymore, he was in John Watson's arms in the middle of an alleyway in busy London, the wind kissing at his skin in a rough but soothing way, and there was no longer any anger or hatred or violence or pain. 

There was John. Beautiful John. John, the powerful enigma and the brutal storm wrapped in gentle jumpers and soothing tea. John, running his vicious, healing doctor hands through soft, tangled brunette curls, then down chiseled cheekbones to wipe away tumbling tears, then tracing cupid bow lips…and those icy cold, sweet, concerned, lovely green-blue doctor eyes looking at him with such affection that his heart almost jumped right out of his throat…and that terrifyingly hard, gentle, steady, doctor voice telling him, _him_ (careless and selfish Sherlock Holmes), these words: "You are so loved. You are so, so loved, and I am so, so sorry Sherlock. I am an idiot, and I am so, so sorry." 

And then those weathered lips that Sherlock had wanted to feel and taste as his for so very, very long – those lips that were pink and plump from licking and biting and raging war against his cock – were breaking into a gorgeous smile, coming closer and closer until they had taken his own cupid-bow lips into a kiss. The wind stopped. The world stopped. London stopped. It was the most blissful, gentle, affectionate, safe kiss and London simply stopped. Sherlock moaned into the kiss, practically purring as he wrapped his arms around John and pulled himself closer into that venomous but safe doctor chest. Then his hands wrapped around oppressive, protective doctor neck and his fingers played with chaotic, calming doctor hair and he felt so safe…so very safe and protected and loved. So very, very loved. And that was why he needed John, wasn't it? Because John was the eye of the tornado. And Sherlock was the tornado's edges. 

And there was only him and John. John and him. Just the two of them against the rest of the world.


	23. Chapter 23

In all his many years, Sherlock Holmes had never expected to be kissed senselessly while he sat stark naked atop a bathroom vanity, his bare arse brilliantly cold from its position dipped perfectly in the sink, the faucet jabbing a bruise into his spine. But such was his current situation - and, to be frank, he found it wonderful!

This particular scenario in the bathroom had started innocently enough, he supposed. As soon as he and John had been able to pick themselves off of the alleyway floor and stumble giddily back to Baker Street, he had popped into the shower, cleaning himself of his fake wounds and fake blood and of the real blood that had caked on his rear end from its recent torturous grinding on the concrete, while John boiled some water for tea out in the kitchen.

When Sherlock was drying himself off from his shower, wincing slightly at the burning pain that was emitting from his scratched up derriere, John entered the bathroom without even a knock, and Sherlock found himself smiling at the realization that such a level of intimacy was allowed between the two of them now – that John and him could share one another’s space without the need to cover and conceal.

“Tea’s ready,” John had said before licking his lips as his eyes travelled lustfully up and down the detective’s long, lean form - yet, the doctor's eyes hardened when the detective turned slightly and the doctor caught glimpse of the wounded state of his bottom. Well, unsurprisingly, tea was forgotten and Sherlock soon found himself leaning over the sink utterly naked with his arse on display for John. This position may not sound innocent, but you can be assured that it was, really, quite innocent indeed: it was for the purposes of John to perform his duties as doctor. John was covering the now-cleaned scratches on Sherlock’s derriere with a healing ointment and Sherlock was hissing something awful because the ointment stung in all the wrong places.

But John’s duties as doctor were soon discarded when, after this treatment was done, John had the deep desire to plant kisses on each of Sherlock’s plump arse cheeks. As an apology. To show that he loved them, and he loved their owner, and he could never apologize enough for the violence he had enacted upon them and their owner. Seeing that said arse cheeks were covered in ointment, John decided to kiss up and down Sherlock’s arse crack instead. And, when Sherlock began to tremble and grunt in pleasure at that, John allowed his tongue to explore that dark cavern more thoroughly, enjoying the acrid taste of Sherlock on his tongue, the bitter scent of Sherlock against his nose, swiping up and down along Sherlock’s crack until both he and Sherlock were moaning with desire and Sherlock was practically falling into John’s tongue from trembling so badly.

Well, the wonders of John's tongue had led a gasping, sweaty, gorgeously aroused Sherlock to turn around and swipe wildly at John’s clothing. In no time at all, both doctor and detective were stark naked. At first -- though there were a million intimate acts Sherlock wanted to do with John right then and there -- Sherlock couldn't do anything more than stare and stare and drink the doctor in, those ever-observant detective eyes glistening brightly and running eagerly over every inch of John’s body, the poor detective slightly shuddering, breathless and light-headed, as he memorized every single inch of the doctor’s naked form that he could. Then, with a bestial moan, Sherlock was lunging at John and they came together, flesh on flesh, grabbing at as much of one another’s skin as was physically possible. And when Sherlock’s erect penis rubbed adamantly against John’s equally erect penis, Sherlock scrambled back up onto the cold vanity, ignoring the cold (indeed, not even noticing it) because he was so eagerly spreading himself and presenting himself to John. He pulled John towards him and, with yet another groan of desire and want, he pushed John’s penis gently but firmly against his hole, his eyes unblinking and on John’s own magnificent eyes.

John looked so soft around the edges, as if this very moment was making him melt with relief after so much dreaming and longing and resisting, but he nevertheless stilled Sherlock’s movements, placing his hands affectionately but firmly over the detective’s. “No, Sherlock, not yet,” he gasped, his voice faint and needy but certain all the same.

Well, Sherlock looked crestfallen. This is not to say that he did not look magnificent at the same time. He was, after all, completely and vulnerably on display atop a bathroom vanity, gloriously aroused, his curls stuck to his forehead, his forehead dripping with sweat, and his skin in splotches of flushed and lovely pink – but, despite all of this magnificence, he simultaneously appeared utterly crestfallen. He pouted, he dropped his head, he furrowed his brow, he shook his head back and forth. He sat in the sink, suddenly embarrassed by the vulnerability he had allowed himself to display.

“No, no, love, don’t look like that,” John cooed and then kissed Sherlock’s face in every place that he possibly could, trying to undo the poor detective’s dejected expression. “I need to break up with Mary first. We can’t do something as…big…as sex while she still thinks that her and I are together.” John brushed a stray curl off of Sherlock’s forehead before planting a kiss on Sherlock’s downturned lips.

Sherlock pulled away from the doctor’s kiss, and proceeded to huff and cross his arms irately. “Don’t be absurd! You’ve just given me a blowjob in the middle of an alleyway, so intense that my arse is literally cut open for Christ’s sake! Surely penetration is not so different!”

“Sherlock,” John urged, cupping the detective’s precious face with his doctor hands. “Please be patient!”

“I’VE BEEN PATIENT!” Sherlock bellowed, swatting John’s hands away, his own hands then turning into fists that he clenched and unclenched with frustration, his voice echoing off the cramped bathroom walls in rich and tremulous tones. His face glowed red with frustration.

Upon seeing his flatmate's distress, John melted into him, holding him close and rubbing soothing circles down his back, his face nestling into the detective’s pale chest. “I know, love, I know you have been patient. You are wonderful. You’re everything I want. I love you so, so much, believe me I do. But please. I need to break it off with Mary before you and I have sex – “

Sherlock deflated and caved into John, a deep sigh erupting from his body, but he nevertheless nodded in agreement.

“Thank you,” John said. He pressed a tender kiss against Sherlock’s lips and Sherlock returned the kiss with equal tenderness; it was a slow, sweet, deep kiss, so very human in its tenderness. Sherlock could certainly ignore the faucet in his back and the fact that his arse was being cradled by the cold porcelain of the bathroom sink for a kiss like this. It was the type of achingly wonderful kiss that made Sherlock increasingly glad to be a human being rather than a mere machine. And, indeed, Sherlock had never felt so human in his entire life as he did at that moment, sitting in the bathroom sink being snogged senselessly and sweetly by John Watson.

 

* * *

 

Tucked in bed and unable to sleep, Mary looked at her cell phone on the pillow next to hers and felt temptation crawl through her muscles for the tenth time in as many minutes; she had not heard from John since the fiasco at the coffee shop, and it took all of her strength not to cave in and give him a call. She wanted him to call her first. She needed him to call her first.

It was late at night by now, and perhaps Mary ought to be worried that some sort of trouble or danger had befallen John Watson. But, in the pit of her stomach, Mary knew that such was not the case. She tossed and turned under her covers, trying not to mentally replay the ghosts of her past, the image of her old diamond engagement ring, the image of the never-worn wedding dress she had purchased, of the bridesmaid gowns she had picked out with such care, of her crying on the steps of her parents house too broken to worry about her pride anymore.

She tossed and turned and tossed and turned, trying to toss these images out of her mind, but as soon as these images were discarded, she found herself turning to look at that cell phone on the pillow, and so she tossed and turned some more.

When said cell phone erupted into noise and vibrations, she practically tangled herself in her blankets in her haste to retrieve it.

“Hello?” she asked, breathless.

“Hi…I’m sorry if this is bad timing. Did I…that is, I hope I didn’t wake you up?”

The voice on the other line was not John’s voice, but Mary recognized it right away and a smile blossomed on her face.

“Sorry,” the voice said again before Mary could speak. The voice sounded slightly flustered. “Sorry, I should have said, you might not remember my voice, it’s – “

“Molly,” Mary finished. “Of course I remember. How are you?”

Molly laughed nervously. “Yeah. Hi. I…uh…actually…well, it’s a bit silly really but…I couldn’t sleep.”

“Well," Mary said, sighing with sympathy. "I’m sorry to hear that. I’m having one of those nights too, as a matter of fact.”

“Really?”

“Really.” 

“I…” Molly laughed again nervously and the laugh turned into a hiccup. “I suppose it’s because I never heard back from my date…to reschedule, you know.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Mary said, sympathetically.

“No. No, it’s fine, really. It’s not a big deal...well, it’s a little disappointing actually. I thought I quite fancied him…but…well, it’s really not a big deal though. Anyway. Did you hear back from your date?”

It was Mary’s turn to laugh until she hiccupped. “No.”

“Oh dear…I’m sorry. You know…actually I was thinking about how much I enjoyed spending time with you earlier and…I was wondering if you…would you…never mind, it’s a silly question. I know it’s late. I should let you sleep.”

“No, no, go on. My curiosity is sparked,” Mary encouraged.

“Oh, okay. Well, since neither of us can seem to sleep…would you like to come by and…uh…well I thought we could watch a movie? And have some wine…or, if wine isn’t your thing, we could have hot chocolate? I have some nice red wine, and tons of hot cocoa power. We could make it a girls night? I know that sounds silly at this hour but – ”

“That sounds great, actually,” Mary interrupted, and she genuinely meant it.

“Does it?”

“It does!”

“Really? Oh my…well, no, that’s…that’s great! I will send you a text with my address, then?”

“Yes, yes, that’s sounds excellent,” Mary said.

Ten minutes later, Mary had changed out of her pajamas into scarlet trousers and a white jumper with scarlet polka dots. After a quick glance in the mirror, she combed through her hair and put on a touch of bright crimson lipstick. She had no idea why she felt like a teenager getting ready for a high school dance – it was simply a very late and very random movie night – but felt like an excited teenager she did. And in no time at all, she was dashing into the late London night, hailing a cab, and on her way to Molly's. 


End file.
